I Believe In Us!
by Vanyiah
Summary: "I don't need love, Miss Hooper." His voice was condescending as ever when he addressed her. "Especially yours." How far would you go to prove that your love was real and that what you felt, what you breathed, was more real than any thing else? (Slight A/U) (Married Sherlolly)
1. Especially You

**Especially You**

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Molly looked down at the golden band encircling her left ring finger. A frown made itself apparent when the image of her husband flashed before her eyes. She should have been happy to be married to him but... the conversation they had about a month prior to the wedding still clawed painfully at her.  
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"I don't need love, Miss Hooper." His voice was condescending as ever when he addressed her. __"__**Especially yours**__." The particular look he gave her, as he dug his one last shard of hate into the female's feeble little heart, had Molly biting back tears... and other things._

_"One more thing, Miss Hooper." Sherlock adjusted his coat's collar and wrapped the soft cashmere scarf snugly around his neck. "Just because our fathers orchestrated this marriage... doesn't change a thing between us." He left. Just like that. A swift turn, and his broad back descended into the shadows of the corridoor, leaving his fiance stunned and speechless._

The truth was, she had never told a soul that her obvious attraction towards Sherlock wasn't just a mere phase of hormones combusting and spazzing out. Over the years of working with the detective... she had grown... fond of him. Then that fondness became something a bit more serious, and sooner than she expected, she was muttering the word 'love' in a hushed whisper to herself.

Then suddenly... she was married to the man her heart yearned for. It was something strange to behold. Molly Hooper had thought they had moved on and passed the century where young women were arranged to be married to wealthy and eligible bachelors with not only intelligence but grace. However, she hadn't known the fact that her father—and Sherlock's father, Mr. Holmes, were plotting right behind the two adults' backs.

When the marriage anouncment had been made between the families... Sherlock more or less went into a childish rampage against the Hooper family and his own father and brother. At the time, Molly didn't quite understand the reason of such a display of immature, and violent behaviour towards everyone.

When it finally came time to the wedding itself, Molly was scared that she'd be the one left at the alter, and not the other way around. She always had this small voice in the back of her head telling her that Sherlock didn't find her in the least bit attractive or even interesting. If anything, she was a quaint little experiement that would run its course and he'd soon lose drive to test her further.

"Do you, Sherlock Holmes, take Molly Hooper to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

The question had Molly perspiring and blatantly expecting Sherlock to say, "I do not." then quietly she would watch him abruptly turn and make a brisk walk towards the church exit.

However... something froze the young detective in place as he stared past the Priest's head and very bitterly said, "I... do."

Molly had counted 10 minutes total from when the question was asked to the verbal statement.

"Molly Hooper," The aged man brought his small blue eyes onto the trembling young lady staring back in fright. "Do you, take Sherlock Holmes, to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

Unexpectedly, the ginger haired female found herself hesitating as she looked between the Priest and Sherlock. She gulped one last time, inhaled deeply, nodded her head and said confidently, "I do."

"I now pronounce you husband and wife!" The Priest exclaimed proudly as he extended his hands for the congregation to stand and clap.  
_"You may now kiss the bride!" _

It wasn't the way both fathers looked at the newly married couple. It wasn't even in the way their family and friends clapped and cheered. Nor was it the way the music seemed to gracefully flow between the excited crowds... and just fit the event transpiring between the two.

But it was in the way... Sherlock Holmes placed his lips against Molly's and gently, even somewhat intimately... kissed her. Then without warning he gave her an unreadable look as he said, "Are you prepared for the consequences, Mrs. Holmes?"

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Feedback would be greatly appreciated ;)


	2. 50-50

**Fifty/Fifty**

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Poor John Watson watched his friend sulk in the red damasked chair as Sherlock stared back at the offending ring on his hand. Never something so small ever irked and annoyed the young detective so.

"Bothersome." Sherlock frowned and wiggled the ring a bit from his finger, trying to pry it free.

"Sherlock!" Watson eyed the man and gave him a pointed look. "Don't." That last command set the detective straight and he eased back into his chair. His eyes trailing over various objects residing in John's... apartment. Correction—in Mr. and Mrs. Watson's apartment.

"How is Molly? Is she getting along well?" Watson calmly asked as he poured a cup of tea for the fuming adult-child sitting opposite of him.

"I honestly don't know, John. I could hardly care, really." Sherlock shrugged, took the tea cup, and shifted in his chair. He stared out the window as he began contemplating the next course of action against Mrs. Molly Holmes.

John tiredly rubbed his temples and said matter-of-factly, "You're avoiding her, aren't you?" Of course, he was right and he watched with pure satisfaction as the married man cringed ever so slowly. The small tea cup in Sherlock's hand went forgotten and he tried desperately to think of other things than the ginger haired woman smiling her obnoxious little smile.

"No, John. Whatever would make you think that?" The bitter sarcastic remark didn't phase the army doctor and he rolled his eyes at Sherlock's poignant comment.

"Perhaps, you should think about it from her perspective as well? I mean, who would ever want to marry a Holmes? You're all crazy in one way or another." Sherlock perked up from the hinted insult and he narrowed his eyes at John; trying to figure out his point. "Sure, you Holmes may be rich but your personalities are lacking drastically!" John continue without missing a beat. "If I was a single and attractive young woman with a good career in front of me... why on earth would I marry? Especially to a Holmes?"

"John, are you trying to tell me something? Is it so, that your real gender identity is that of a woman? Perhaps, you even have this attraction for me? If so, then I'll have to respectfully decline the obvious—"

"Sherlock! Stop!"

"Also, you would make one horrendous specimen of the female populace."

"What definition of 'stop' do you not understand?"

"Even more so, I'm married and I don't find myself even remotely attracted to you—"

"That's it Sherlock Holmes! You get out of my flat this moment and go home to your wife or so help me!" John had already gathered Sherlock's wool trench coat and scarf and began to detach him from his relaxed position on the chair. There was a slight struggle of the small male kicking his friend out the door.

Sherlock looked like an abandoned pet as he stared back at John pleadingly.

"Go home, Sherlock! Don't come back here or I'll call your family to bar every exit of that home of yours and if they won't... I WILL!" John shut the door without warning and walked away hoping his friend definitely got the point and made his long trek back home.

On the other-side, the detective huffed, and stared down the wooden door before he ultimately gave up on coercing John to let him stay the night. Fine. If John Watson wouldn't entertain him then he'd just have to go bother someone else then... and he knew perfectly just who to experiment on.

"Molly," A light bulb went off in the dark haired man's head and he began to formulate a plan of action to make good on his promise against his wife.

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Thoughts? Comments? Anything you'd like to specifically see happen between Molly and Sherlock? Feedback would be greatly appreciated :D


	3. Wordless Seduction

**Wordless Seduction**

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She was alone.

Molly glared down at the dark brown liquid which held her reflection. She had lost count on the many cups of coffee she had already consumed within the last hour and a half. What was she expecting, she thought. Sherlock was probably off doing what he did best. Being a consulting detective with his trusty side-kick John Watson!

Molly groaned and looked down at her watch: _**11:00PM.**_

She had ended her shift at the morgue early; due to the fact her colleagues noticed the exhausted and depressed look she wore all day. They made the mistake in thinking that the new Mrs. Holmes was starting to miss her husband. The thoughts of married bliss ran rampant through-out their brains. It was somewhat sickening in just how far from the truth the whole thing was.

Without hesitation she took off as soon as her boss gave her the thumbs up.

He had done it again, Molly mused on the way back to the flat on Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes had fooled everyone into thinking that they were going at it each night. Soaking up the ever glorious intimacy between man and wife. In the minds of the female employees at St. Bartholomew's, Molly was doing good the one man that kept interjected himself into their fantasies each and every day.

Oh, don't get her wrong. Molly would have loved to have some sort of connection with Sherlock. If only... he'd let her get even two feet close to him. How many nights had it been since their wedding weeks long ago? How many nights had she slept in Sherlock's bed sans a handsome Sherlock... how many _**SLEEPLESS**_nights had she have to endure?

"Don't bother, Molly." Sherlock had tried to reassure her when she noticed him making camp on the living room's old and antique couch. That same night she could barely sleep. It didn't help that the man she had pined for all these years was literally molesting her senses with his... bed... his room entirely. Everything was just... Sherlock Holmes. Everything smelled of Sherlock _bloody _Holmes

His bed had the majority of his scent. And it provoked rather... sensual dreams about a certain male.

_**12:52AM.**_

The door creaked as it opened, and Molly quickly stood, her eyes wide and expecting, breath hitching in her throat.

"You should be asleep." Sherlock's deep voice pierced the silence and his light blue eyes struck Molly right where it hurt the most.

"I-I..." Molly stuttered and looked down at her hands; she was still holding the coffee cup. "I thought we could have dinner." Her voice came out softly and she looked down somewhat embarrassed. It was very hard not to add the word 'together' to the sentence. If she did... she knew it'd upset him.

"Alright... " Sherlock began to remove his coat and revealed the deep purple button up shirt that Molly had secretly favored. The look he gave his wife had her gaping at him like a fish.

"Oh... Oh!" Molly stirred from the shock and began to frantically move around the small kitchen. She had cooked honey glazed ham and seasoned vegetables. The ham she bought, while the vegetables were what was left in the small fridge. Sherlock had done well in cleaning and sanitizing the kitchen before he acquired his wife. He wasn't completely heartless...

"It looks divine." The monotone way he said the words made the ginger haired woman smile. She took it as a compliment—regardless of how it was said.

"I... hope you like it." Molly said softly, sat opposite of her husband, and watched him eye the neat portion she had placed on his plate.

If one thing could be said about Molly, it was the fact that her cooking was refreshing. Sherlock nodded his head at the taste of real food and swallowed. In the past, he had either spent the day without food or Mrs. Hudson would sneak in and make him a rather amazing feast to last him a week... that, and when John moved in, the doctor would always cook for the both of them.

"Well, I must say..." Sherlock placed his elbows on the table, clasped his hands together and began to lean towards his wife. Poor Molly couldn't breathe. This was just too... much. Most of what Sherlock said fell on deaf ears as she stared back at him.

The light above seemed to enhance the detective's sharp features, icy blue eyes, and deep colored hair. He looked absolutely... jaw-dropping, fan girl raving, heart stopping, drop dead gorgeous. The deep purple shirt he wore slightly unbuttoned didn't help in the least!

"... with all that said. I'll do the cleaning up." Sherlock stood and began to clear the table. Molly sat stock still in her chair.

One thing that Sherlock held over his wife was the fact he could seduce her without having to use words. One look was all it took. Just the mere attention he gave her with his eyes was all it took for Molly nee Hooper to see stars.

"Good-night, Sherlock." Molly didn't wait to hear her husband wish her a good night's sleep. She had to escape. She had to escape into the sensory molestation of that infernal room she resided in.

Maybe if his wife had turned around she'd see the victorious look smeared all over the detective's face. "I think I'll continue this experimentation a little bit longer." He said to himself all the while pouring coffee into a small cup.

The night didn't go so smoothly for Molly as it did for Sherlock.

Her head was filled to the brim of her husband. Her head began to hurt. Her heart ached. Her body was on pins and needles. Every time she would close her eyes, his face would abruptly pop up and he would slowly smile back at her. He was taunting her, she knew in the back of her mind.

"Married bliss," Molly sarcastically said and gripped the white sheets around her. She inhaled deeply and softly moaned. Had she mentioned just how gloriously musky and erotic his bed smelled? One couldn't achieve such a strong smell unless... one slept... naked.

_Oh, heaven have mercy!_

Sherlock needn't torment his wife... she was already doing that bit all by herself.

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I blame my inner fan girl for... this chapter. It helped a bit too much and the visualizations I got by the end gave me 'feelz'. Major props to the Sherlolly and Benedict Cumberbatch fandom for destroying all of my rationality and soul. It's not healthy to look at Benny's face for hours on end... NOPE.

I'd love to hear what you all have to say.

**Also!**

To those who reviewed in 'guest' mode: Thank you very much :) for your wonderful comments and feedback. Yes, this will definitely be a multi-chapter story.


	4. Closer

**Closer**

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Molly began to see a pattern happening between them.

They would always wake up especially early. Sherlock would start his day with a blog John had coerced him to create, then to frequent, and then to update. Asking him to post whatever bit of advice and tips he deemed worthy to share with the masses. Unfortunately, the detective found no one in particular worth the amount of time and energy he'd put into the bloody thing. Then again, he eventually deemed the blog as a worthy experiment and instead of giving... why, he could very much take whatever he wanted. All he needed was the right theme to start. So Sherlock Holmes, with his _infinite_ amount of time—and under a pseudonym—created an interactive crime and mystery blog. Asking those, who thought themselves worthy enough to play his little game, to come out and spend a few hours a day solving riddles and cases, asking input and feedback on past cases he himself had already solved.

And out of the thousands of people from all over the world... only a handful came out even somewhat remotely smart. Smart—key word here; not intelligent or mind-shattering impressive. Just smart. Had they impressed Mr. Holmes? Oh, not in the least, but his interest was piqued.

However, there were only two specific people that had the detective raising his brows at. Something about the way they articulated and specified each answer to his riddles had Sherlock grinning slightly.

As he did this... Molly would always stare from across the kitchen and watch her husband... mildly jealous at whoever or whatever had his attention.

"I made coffee," Molly called from the kitchen on the other side of the flat. A bright smile hoping to attract the attention of the ever elusive consulting detective Holmes to her side. Sadly, she was out of luck and the man merely raised his hand up as he barked orders at her.

"Black with two sugars, Molly."

This is where the routine would come in.

Every morning he would be cold, impassive, and utterly disassociated with her. As if they were at St. Batholomew's and she was back to being Molly Hooper. As always, she would give him his coffee and head straight out the door seconds later, never uttering a single word. If he had given her the slightest glance, maybe he would notice just how she bit her bottom lip, and patted her cheeks to keep herself in check from crying out in frustration. Literally.

The majority of the day would be spent alone with their own thoughts and work. Whatever he did and wherever Sherlock went was a mystery in itself. Molly would always be home first, coming to find a mess here and there, evidence of her husband's spontaneous visit to the flat. Sometimes she berated herself for cleaning up after him all the time. He was a grown man and he could do his own cleaning for all she cared! Was what her brain would say back at her whenever she knelt down to pick up a fallen piece of paper.

There were times where Molly would come home early and she'd have hours to spend just exploring the flat. She hardly ever touched any of his things. Merely observed and took note on what he might like for Christmas. If he even celebrated any Holiday at all!

One place that Molly found her resolve faltering was his bedroom and closet.

It was a sin—she was sure of it!—to be sneaking around like some pervert and to gently finger each individual piece of clothing her husband wore. Especially his shirts, he owned more than one shirt, surprisingly! It was if a part of Sherlock's soul particularly clung to the fibers of his shirts.

If Molly was daring enough she would take one of his white button up shirts and place it over her partially naked torso. Slowly she'd lift a part of the fabric up and inhale. It always smelled fresh and masculine to her. Sometimes, if she was feeling particularly sad she would imagine that it was him that was engulfing her.

If ever there was a tear to be had in this marriage, all Molly had to do was to wear one of Sherlock's shirts, and imagine that he didn't hate her. Imagine that she meant something and that they weren't bound for destruction. A small escape to the dreams inside her head, and even the lie that she wasn't breaking her own heart...

"Molly?" Sherlock materialized at the door to his room.

How was she going to explain this?

"S-sherlock!" Molly stood, quickly threw a blanket around her, and boldly faced her husband with a flushed face. "W-welcome home! You're e-early!" she began to stutter. "I'm sorry. I only just got home. Dinner isn't even ready..." Sherlock didn't miss her voice filled with guilt. Didn't miss the way her skin flushed as he stared her down. Nor did he miss how her clothes were strewn across the bed—

"Molly," Sherlock began to say, and he walked towards his trembling wife; she started to back away utterly frightened. "I apologize. I should have gone home with you." a hand came to rest on Molly's damp head. "I miscalculated the time it would rain."

Molly blinked a few times and lowered her head to smile. "It's fine," she muttered softly. "I'll get dressed and go work on dinner." It was a quick dash to the bathroom where her fresh set of clothes were already waiting after the bath she had taken.

"Oh, and Molly!" Sherlock was standing in front of his closet, back facing towards his wife as she turned to look at him.

"Yes?"

"I seem to have misplaced one of my white shirts. I count three when there should be four. Perhaps, you might have seen it lying around?" Sherlock then slowly turned and gave his wife a knowing look... snarky bugger!

Instinctively, Molly wrapped the blanket tighter around herself. "N-no, no... I haven't seen it lying around!" with a face still red she quickly slammed the door shut.

Molly didn't lie to her husband.

She spoke absolute truth. His shirt wasn't lying around. It was currently **on **something. _Big difference._

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As always, feedback, comments, reviews ;) Whatever you want to leave behind would be most appreciated!


	5. Hunger Pains

**Hunger Pains**

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Sherlock watched Molly one Friday evening after she had ended her shift early at the hospital. The evening was spent just observing and taking personal notes on the little pathologist.

At times, Molly would start to hum to herself when she thought he wasn't listening. Always the same jazz tune from a movie she had watched some time back. She'd attempt to sway to the rhythm of the song as it played in her head. When she started to work on the pasta sauce she would miss the occasional beat here and there.

The night was going smoothly with the detective eyeballing his wife as she busied herself with the cooking. Perhaps she had felt the crazy look he was giving her and misunderstood the meaning of it. The first mistake Molly made was to try and start a conversation when she noticed the blue eyes. The small voice broke the detective out of his bubble of deducting.

"What was your mother like when you were growing up?" Molly's voice was soft and small as she looked shyly over her shoulder to Sherlock. He had never told her about his family in particular. She always had to guess small details here and there from how her husband and brother-in-law acted around her.

Sherlock frowned, and rolled his eyes in the direction to the wall full of bullet holes he had a hand at creating. "Boring." Sherlock said almost spitefully. "You could read her like a book. Nothing ever came as a surprise when she attempted to make it so."

His wife furrowed her eyebrows at the tone of voice he took. "I'm sure she was a wonderful mother." Molly tried to remedy. "With sons like you, and Mycroft, I'm sure she had her work cut out for her." It was a small little giggle, but he heard it nonetheless.

"Exactly what does that mean, Mrs. Holmes?" Sherlock snapped and glared at his wife. The venom dripping from his voice as he spat out her new last name had Molly somewhat in a tizzy.

"Exactly what you just did right now!" She replied just as forcibly... but just as quick as she had snapped... she bit the inside of her cheek and apologized for being rude.

"You're exactly like her, Molly." He was cutting too deep. "At least try to be a bit of a challenge. I get bored quite easily, mind you." The statement was Sherlock's undoing.

There was a moment of silence between the two as Molly began to turn off the heat on the stove. Took the pots full of tonight's dinner and began to dump it down the drain and trash basically all her hard work. Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he watched his wife clear off the table, placing dishes and silverware back in their original spot back in the cabinets.

"What are you doing, Molly?" Sherlock began to stand and slowly walk towards the woman rushing about.

Molly was quiet as she ignored her husband.

"Molly!" Sherlock turned his wife around and she raised her hand, aimed for his face, and tried to take a shot at the detective. He easily grabbed her hand, smirked down at her, and at his **short** lived victory. He never expected her knee to miss a beat and aim right between his legs.

"Tell me, Sherlock..." her voice still held its soft calm and she watched her husband as he slowly knelt to the ground making choked groans. "Was that enough of a challenge for you?" He feared that she might be relishing his temporary defeat by smiling—she wasn't. Her only reply was his strangled wheezing.

"Good-night, darling." With that said, Mrs. Holmes left her husband on the kitchen floor as she more than ran to her bedroom. Once the door was shut, the locked turned, and door jammed against it—Molly began to panic. Had she really just kneed her husband in the—uh, crotch?!

"Darn it," The pathologist rubbed her stomach and made a sour face. "I'm so hungry..."

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Oh... Can I do that? Make Molly knee Sherlock in the ching-chongs? I mean... is that legal in terms of fan fiction XD

A little update for those wanting to see a passive Molly being active and taking names. Any thoughts? Comments? Flaming little marshmallows of doom you'd like to toss at me?


	6. Once Again

**Once Again**

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There was a silence around her as she laid in bed. November's chill had made itself known within the room, and Molly wrapped the blanket tighter around her. It was too early to be having these deep thoughts. Too early to be shifting from one emotion to another. But it was refreshing nonetheless.

Somewhere along the lines Molly had realized that her marriage was probably doomed from the start. Would she ever find a familiar ground with her estranged husband? Would they eventually form something deeper in the nearing future? Was there even a 'them' to begin with?

As she laid in bed, a voice kept intervening any other sort of rational thought that had drifted to and fro deep inside her head. The little voice spoke of the normal and boring Molly that would and always will be. It spun little self loathing comments about how she was attractive and interesting as a school science project. Something particular, but never lasting. It told her that she would eventually fade into the background with the miniscule attention she gave to her outward appearance. **It was the voice of her own low self-esteem.**

The voice always reared its ugly head around the corner whenever she felt particularly depressed or thought far too much about her life.

Molly agreed to the voice that she didn't have one glamorous bone in her entire body. Her personality seemed to get her through well in life. Kindness and brains worked well with each other and her gentle nature seemed to prove best in the long run... However, the stress that she felt with Sherlock, both their families, and the ever see-saw way her emotions drifted between being loved by her husband, and if not that... then even a minor acceptance of being an equal... wore down on her resolve. So much had it gotten to her she had done the worst and kneed her husband right in-between the legs. Something completely unlike her and an act she was forever ashamed of doing.

Perhaps in was the voice in her head that had knocked her back a few steps and she actually contemplated what the rest of her life would be like if she was to remain married to Sherlock _Bloody _Holmes.

Most women would probably confine themselves to their work. Maybe for others it was a personal cell to place themselves as the depression wore away at their life. For the lucky few, they found other ways to make their loveless marriages bearable, right? Having a lover on the side was out of the question and Molly hardly had any friends. The most she could do, she thought over for awhile, was to completely change her own outlook on the situation.

It was decided then, as the young, ginger haired pathologist sat up in bed with a determined smile on her face. She would improve herself as a woman. Because, that's what women knew best, correct? Even if it was the smallest of changes, she would prove not only to herself—as well to her husband—that she was content in bearing the responsibility thrust upon them by their families with good intentions alongside a good heart.

Depression, if it came, would not stop her from finding some sort of steady ground with Sherlock. Molly with all her strength and determination would make the best of her marriage; even if it was a one-sided, unrequited sort of deal.

Transforming into a more confident Molly would be gradual, she concluded to herself. With time she'd come to accept the fact that it was alright not to be loved by someone. Perhaps, with even more time... Sherlock would come to grips with her company and not deem her so... offensive to his senses.

Unfortunately, things took **time **and there was a high doubt that Sherlock would even spend that **much** time trying to accept his fate. A divorce was still eminent. Had it been talked of? No. Was it jumping around secretively in the detective's mind? Yes.

**6:50 AM**

Molly had pulled herself out of bed, into decent clothes, and walked quietly into the kitchen. He was awake, of course. Just sitting there looking through his blog, probably awake hours before her.

The coffee was another one of the ritualistic things that would build the bridge between them. Always black coffee with two sugars. Sometimes she'd add some flavored creamer to hers and other times she would drink it as black and bitter as she could.

"I'm sorry for the other night." Molly was the first to break the silence. Her small hands busied themselves with cleaning up the coffee grounds that she had spilled accidentally from the small measuring spoon. "It just... kind of happened." she frowned then when there was no answer.

"But you always say such mean things," the whisper was assumed to be heard by only her and her alone. There wasn't an expectation of him standing right behind her. When she had elbowed him lightly they began to maneuver around the kitchen; almost like a dance. Her feet would take two steps and he'd only need one. Where she tried to dodge his presence, he'd insert himself further into the air around her. Finally, their little dance ended with her being trapped against the kitchen counter and his hands an her forearms.

He was giving her that look again. Always that cursed look that had her seeing stars and rainbows and making her heart race. Always that **bloody** look.

"Something's different about you, Molly." Sherlock said as he looked over the female below him. There was no trace of perfume, no makeup, not even a change of clothes he hadn't already seen. But he just _felt _it.

"Nothing's different about me, honestly." her voice didn't hint to any suspicious actions or even tried to hide whatever it was Sherlock suspected her of. Her voice was just honest and bland. Normal. _Plain 'ol normal Molly..._

"Oh, don't tell me." Sherlock frowned and his forehead creased. "Little Molly has been thinking hard again." it was somewhat spiteful the way he said the words so accusingly. As if could deduce her thoughts that easily! Arrogant git.

Molly frowned this time, she didn't like his tone of voice nor did she want this going anywhere downhill. The apology was said, he should have done nothing but went on with his life other than press her harder into the kitchen counter.

"Tell me about it." Sherlock demanded softly.

"I..." Molly gulped, his eyes never left hers. "I was thinking about life."

It was unusual for him to back away so suddenly as if the confession shocked him. How was it possible? That little Molly could think about such deep things Sherlock pondered for a moment and grimaced.

"The promise of 'consequences'..." her voice trailed off as the next sentence danced from her brain to her small mouth. "It's enough isn't it?" soon her voice raised in pitch as she became almost frantic. "Isn't it consequence enough to be married to you when you don't even love me?!"

She hadn't meant to falter like that, the words came tumbling out far too easily, and far too honestly. The close proximity was to blame. All those years of wanting, of waiting, and of dreaming for him to look at her with his full attention and not that silly glance he'd give her when he wanted something. The attention a man gave to a woman! Regardless of familiarity or relationship. She just wanted to feel a tad bit like a woman in his eyes, even for a moment. Because she knew... there was far too much child-like innocence, trust and kindness within her to really impress him on a level that changed his conception of her.

He was far too close for her to think straight. Far too close for her to hold that confidence she had told herself she would begin to work on.

_Just too **bloody **close for her to be rational..._

"Oh no... no..." Molly started to moan to herself as she realized that she had said **love** in one sentence involving him. He had told her from the beginning...

"_I don't need love, Miss Hooper... Especially yours."_

Her mind wasn't ready to reap the consequences of her words.

"Do you really love me?" he had asked her and she felt his large hands clutch her shoulders lightly.

Molly blanched.

"Prove it." Sherlock smirked.

"W-what?"

"I said prove it!" his voice raised enough to startle her out of her frozen state. "Better yet, show me."

Never mind. The shock was enough to freeze her back.

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Alright, I hope this revised chapter was a bit more forth-coming and accepting to those who were on the fence about the chapter 6 I had originally updated with. To those who haven't read the original chapter, don't worry about it. It was horrible. Trust me.

Anyways, please send me your thoughts on this and if I kept a good pace with the characters and plot thus far.

Many thanks to my C.C.'s (constructive criticizers) who took time to straighten me out :D

Don't jump my bones yet about the two getting frisky. Let the romance boil through before we go anywhere near **that **scene yet ;)


	7. Change

**Change**

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_...Show me._

Molly had panicked more than she had intended to do as she tried to make distance between her and Sherlock. Her face was becoming a pretty shade of crimson each passing second and she fidgeted against the hands holding her in place. The counter was starting to make itself known as it poked her lower back.

"H-how?" the female stuttered then suddenly became very still and looked up at Sherlock. The attempt to search his eyes hard enough to try and find a revelation behind his reasoning went without answer. What was she supposed to say now? He was starting to challenge her with that grin making itself slowly evident on his perfectly structured face.

"Wasn't it noticeable enough?" the way she said those words with such the gentlest voice had Sherlock raising his eyebrow. The love she spoke of was not necessarily in her obvious actions, but in the way she cared and tended to the flat, and the things that mattered to him. Dusting his books, cleaning and sweeping up the floor, and washing and mending his clothes. A very obvious yet overlooked show of affection in many ways, mind you.

"It's not in you to be so cryptic, Molly." Sherlock stated firmly with almost a roll of his eyes. Still daft as ever to the ways of a woman, Molly mused lightly to herself.

"Well, I'm not trying to be!" the loud exclamation of defense definitely was heard and the detective couldn't help but lean in with that same silly grin. There was a question in those blue eyes:

_What are you trying to say, Molly?_

"You're the detective aren't you, Sherlock? Can't you do that deducing bit you do?" Molly's voice cracked and she couldn't hold back the blush nor keep her eyes focused on him. The air was starting to choke the last bit of sanity within the female pathologist as the subject of her fantasies became a bit far too real even now. What with that grin, blue eyes, and dark curly hair!

The light chuckle he let escape from his lips surprised her. Was there ever a time she had actually heard him sound so genuine as he did now? It wasn't a fake chuckle nor did it seemed forced. He was just honestly... amused.

"Black with two sugars, Mrs. Holmes." Sherlock pulled himself away from his wife once he heard the coffee machine beep signaling its final brewing. There was a sort of sweetness in how he said the sentence. Almost endearing. As if the situation that had played out moments ago were a normalcy and as if it was all a jest. Molly noted that whenever he acted so... relateable... so, _friendly _it was only when he wanted something.

**Or **he was trying to get away from a direction things could head towards to. Something... he wasn't used to dealing with. Something foreign.

Yes, their marriage was foreign to the both of them... even for Molly.

"Don't you ever get tired of it?" Molly poured the coffee into her husband's usual cup and more than threw the two cubes of sugar into the liquid and began to watch them dissolve slowly.

"What?" Sherlock yelled from the living room as he typed away at his laptop. Not once raising his head to look at his wife.

It was Molly's turn to be quiet and to be solemn. It was her turn to ponder once again if this ritualistic dance of the two mentalities and never ending game of cat-and-mouse was worth it. Perhaps, she should be the change of direction in this game between them...

"Molly?" Sherlock finally looked up, his wife's back was facing him.

"Always being right, always being Sherlock Holmes... Always being so... _bloody_ brilliant. Doesn't it get tiring?" her words didn't hint to any sort of flattery or compliment to the man. It was an honest-to-God question at his personality and at his entire being. It was a first for him—a regular female actually questioning his existence as a whole.

"Only when one thinks about it." his reply was far too calculated and far too calm.

"Do you ever then?" Molly was standing in front of him now, trying to tower over him as she gripped the white coffee cup with both hands. "Think, that is?"

He was silent.

Molly smiled kindly.

He was afraid wasn't he? Afraid of his humanity and not being invincible as he'd like to believe himself to be, huh? To her, he seemed like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Molly realized that in all fairness: Did he really want to deduce himself as flesh and blood... and not something... more? Something that people could eventually prove wrong and with fault? It did seem scary, even for her.

"Black with two sugars," Molly placed the coffee cup down on Sherlock's desk and started to head towards the door.

"Thank you, Molly." Sherlock whispered as he watched his wife for the first time put on her over-sized coat, wrap the faded hand knitted scarf (that her mother had probably made) around the small neck she had, and slip on seasoned mittens that probably had been their prime in color when they were new.

Molly was quiet when she left for work that morning.

For the first time... she never looked back.

* * *

Kudos to my sister who helped and inspired this chapter. All the cookies and blue berry pancakes to that doll :D such a sweetie!

I'd like to post this chapter in hopes of how now I can start on their relationship as a whole and in bringing them closer together.

Again, too all my readers, any feedback would be greatly appreciated! I've read through this chapter and felt satisfied with it. If some of you feel that it could be revised in a better way because things may seem "out" of order or too OOC. Then feel free to throw me a C.C. on how I can improve things :D


	8. Recognize

**Recognize**

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There was an inexcusably lonely feeling surrounding Molly Hooper.

Many months ago, before this unfortunate situation between them happened, he had first laid eyes on the ginger haired female at a gathering his parents held in their mansion in the countryside. He hadn't wanted to come, but his mother made **that **face, and with the softest voice pleaded with him to come to the intimate meeting between them and some close friends.

Sherlock had always held a high respect for his mother—even though he would swear up and down how he detested her—there was just a sweetness and understanding the woman had for him. What she held for her son definitely went noticed and was quietly received by Sherlock.

"Her name is Molly," Mrs. Holmes had caught her son eyeing the female from across the room as she slowly sipped the hot chocolate. The oversized and ugly Christmas sweater Molly wore was gaudy and more than screamed for attention at itself rather than the wearer, really. "Don't judge a book by its cover, darling." Mrs. Holmes chided her son softly and saw him grimace at the young woman before shrugging.

"She's really not all that bad. On the inside, she's an intelligent, talented, and promising young femme fatale. I can assure you." Sherlock eyed his mother and sarcastically said, "The only _fatale_ thing in this room is her sweater, mother." Mrs. Holmes raised her eye brows in shock and elbowed her son in the side; she was not amused. "Might I give you a spoon to eat your words when the time comes?" Mrs. Holmes frowned at her son.

"**When **and **if** the time comes, yes, you may." Sherlock replied nonchalant to his mother before walking off and passing the unfortunate wretch by. Not once looking or acknowledging her person. Suddenly, he felt it then.

A lonely and somber air around her; something Sherlock didn't want to have anything to do with.

Later on, when everyone was situated at the dinner table, Sherlock could not help but over hear Molly softly bickering with her mother. "I feel like a child." Molly frowned and pulled at the sweater she wore. "I'm well over twenty... this is embarrassing."

Mrs. Hooper, Sherlock later realized, did in fact have a secret agenda by the way she knowingly eyed the other individuals at the table before biting back at her daughter. "Don't be ridiculous! You asked me what you should wear and I told you. Now, stop fussing like a spoiled child."

It was only somewhere down the road that Sherlock found out about Mrs. Holmes unhealthy obsession of being over controlling; her absolutely unreasonable low-self-esteem issues she herself dealt with, and knowingly thrust upon her daughter in the supposedly good intent of 'protecting' her.

In her mind, Mrs. Hooper feared that her daughter's much matured body would attract the less finer and rational mentalities from the uglier side of the world. And in such a thought, Molly's mother continued to manipulate the young woman till she dressed in such gaudy and eye-blinding outfits that the world eventually ignored her.

Of course, Mrs. Hooper's eye was on the prize and she more than rejoiced when she found out about her husband's dealings with Mr. Holmes in marrying and merging their families together. By that time, however, poor Molly Hooper had been hand fed too many negative ideals and too many ridiculous thoughts; that eventually, she was the perfect doll acting without a reasonable thought for her own person.

But... when Sherlock crossed paths with Molly at St. Bart's even before their imminent engagement he stood corrected. Almost surprised. She had changed his thoughts about her; this Molly character. He had noticed a brighter, happier, and less lonelier Molly Hooper who tried her best to fit in.

There were even the few occasions Molly had tried her hand at dating, tried her hand at wearing her hair in various forms, and even tried to wear makeup. On said few occasions, Molly had even tried to attract Sherlock Holmes.

But we all know how that went into play...

"Here's that spoon I've been meaning to give you." Mrs. Holmes had given her son a small rectangular box that held a small baby spoon with a pink ribbon tied around it. She knew her son wouldn't miss a beat in the double meaning the marriage gift held.

The crazy old woman wanted grandchildren... far too early to be planning such things.

"Funny, mother. Very funny." Sherlock seethed and glared down at the Cheshire cat of a woman. Mrs. Holmes couldn't help but giggle and give her son a kiss on the cheek. Mothers, strange yet fascinating creatures.

"Go easy on her, darling boy. " Mrs. Holmes whispered while her hands came to caress her youngest son's face and she beamed up at him like a child. "Lest you find yourself out of love, out of home, and out of life."

"You should write this down, Mum. It could add a rather fitting theme to your mystery-romance novels." Sherlock advised with a bit of jest in his voice as he addressed his mother.

"Cheeky, cheeky, Sherlock. Might just take your word on that bit." Mrs. Holmes said before winking and walking off to talk with Sherlock's newly acquired in-laws.

Sherlock pulled himself away from the reminiscing once he heard the door open and gently close. He needn't get up, all he had to do was watch her from the corner of his eye as she came into view. It was a game now. To deduce where and what his wife had been up too all day long.

The forecast today was a light sprinkling of snow; as it now was fact due to the small, almost miniscule water droplets that had lightly covered the green over-sized coat and auburn strands of hair on Molly's head. She was out of breath when she came into the living room. There was a slight sweet scent lingering over her once she made it into the kitchen. Ah! Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he spotted the brown and red striped package being placed on the counter.

"Been about, have you?" Sherlock had startled Molly out of her concentration for she hardly even acknowledged his presence when she came through the door.

Molly still jumped, and backed further into the small kitchen, once she heard his voice. There should have been a familiarity enough between them to not over react like she did. Sherlock didn't even wait for his wife to respond before standing and striding over to her.

He had leaned in close to the side of Molly's face, inhaled, and soon smiled after coming to a conclusion. The cold November chill still clung to his wife's skin and clothes; her cheeks were flushed and lips tinted red.

"I'll drink it black without the sugar this time."

Molly gaped up at the detective without a clue as to what he was talking about.

"The flavored coffee you have there isn't partial to sugar in it. Rather, it's best to eat the sugar cookies, which I'm sure you have somewhere on you, and sip lightly to best taste the flavors." he rambled on for what seemed like a decade before settling with that trademark grin of his and quick look at the coffee maker to the left of them.

"How did yo—" Molly began to say but paused when a dark eyebrow rose at the obvious answer.

"Sorry, I keep forgetting that I'm married to a Holmes." her face lit up with laughter and her eyes crinkled with a childlike and innocent mirth that had Molly looking almost... fresh. No, she looked rejuvenated in a sense.

"What flavor is it?" Molly abruptly asked, the package hidden behind her back, and a smile played over her features now.

Sherlock looked down at his wife and said, "Cinnamon." He was absolutely puffed up with himself, Molly thought. She bit her bottom lip to keep some of her resolve.

"Wrong." Too late. Molly couldn't help but burst out in a fit of laughter.

What once was a high and mighty detective suddenly broke down to a 5-year-old who looked as if they were abruptly told that Santa Clause wasn't real on Christmas day. "You're lying!" Sherlock hissed as he brought his face closer to his wife's.

"Nope." the woman shook her head while giggling and began to sway left-and-right. "It's hazelnut. The coffee I mean." she corrected with a devilish spark in her eye.

"Well, you weren't specific." Sherlock said matter-of-fact as he crossed his arms.

"Maybe but at least you're right about the cookies. Cinnamon icing." Molly tried to console her sulking husband and slowly opened the bag from behind her back. She reached in to fetch her detective a treat.

"Which I am very much entitled to." Sherlock quipped smartly as he swiped the cookie the female handed to him with that ever goofy smile still glued to her face.

"But of course." she jokingly quipped back as haughtily as she could.

"Thank you." Sherlock nodded his head and briskly walked back to the table where his laptop waited and where his blog promised entertainment for this evening. He left Molly to work on the coffee. And she did, taking leisure to the task as it gave her time to think about the detective opposite of her who typed away quickly on his laptop. Cookie in mouth.

It was definitely for certain: He wasn't as lonely as when she first laid eyes on him.

* * *

I am seriously chuffed to bits by everyone. Honestly! Such wonderful feedback :) You guys make my day!

I hope this chapter is long enough and gives a bit of back story to those who were curious. I understand, a lot of jumping around that one has to really be on their toes to keep up but I do hope you enjoy the story and plot thus far.

More fluffy, dramatic and tear-jerking moments.

Oh! I will ask for you folks to keep an eye out. Because, the big conflict of the upcoming chapters might have you a bit on the fence... however, for those who have got their inner-Sherlock raging about... it might or might not be such an easy pick out.

A Clue: It will be rather obvious and it will be a character you all know and love to hate.

Stick around Sherlollians! I promise, you won't be disappointed in the least ;)

P.S. For those thinking that it's Jim M. coming to cause a scene... you are sorely mistaken.

Bye-bye! Till next time!


	9. New

**New**

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It had been a rough week.

One moment Molly felt relatively close to her husband then the next—he's disregarding and blatantly ignoring her. There was a moment in that one week that the crestfallen Holmes wife felt the need to remedy the situation. However, her husband would have none of that!

"Molly," Sherlock had began to speak; eyes still downcast at the microscope. "You're talking. Why are you talking?"

It was very rude, yes, and all the female pathologist could do was gape at her husband and at the boldness he showed towards her. She figured it was the recent case. Something that the police had put on hold because of not enough evidence to pin-point the accurate culprit. When news hit that this particular case—Sherlock refused to tell her what it was about exactly—was re-opened the detective went head first into it without much of a warning.

That meant late nights, frequent bouts of coffee, and the never ending mess of papers and miscellaneous objects strewn about the flat. It was tiresome for both of them. Especially for Molly, who had to clean around her husband, and sometimes had to deal with being told to get out of the way for interrupting him on one of his train of thoughts.

Was this what she was constantly going to put up with? A husband who only found her interesting for a cup of coffee, or only when he really had nothing else to do, or someone to bother. There was that feeling of insignificance rearing up again in Molly's gut.

Talk only when talked to.

Act only when acted upon.

Stay quiet when you've lost the attention of your brilliant detective of a husband and become the lackey he expects you to be when John Watson wasn't around.

He had shocked her on the weekend as he suddenly said, "You're not John Watson. I doubt you'll ever be a John Watson."

What had she done to ever receive such a distasteful and cruel remark thrown in her direction? Molly had tried to help her husband beyond what was expected of her. How ridiculous! How heartless of him! One little week of trying to impress him with the fact that she was more than just a little house wife and he goes and spits in her face.

Fine.

He can be that way for all she cared.

Sherlock Holmes had successfully broken down the ladder to improvement with just a few words and a few moments of looking at his wife like she was an idiot.

Very well done, Mr. Holmes! Molly thought bitterly as she threw open the bedroom door and walked out into the living room. She was pleased to notice that her Monday would be free and away from her husband. Probably off case-solving without her and with his best-buddy-4-life, John Watson.

In all truth, Molly didn't hate nor dislike John in the least. He was a loyal man who regarded his friendship with Sherlock a very serious thing. For that, Molly respected the army doctor. John was not only loyal to Sherlock, but he loved his wife with as much ardent regard and respect.

Something... Molly was highly jealous of.

Hopefully, things at work would be more promising. Be more... lighter of a load.

"Another poor unfortunate." Molly looked at her colleague with a bit of sadness on her face. Will, one of the older and experienced pathologists, pulled the white sheet down to reveal a petite woman with a rather large hole at the top of her head.

"Suicide?" Molly looked down at the papers on the clipboard and frowned as she looked back at the female. "Her age definitely fits the bill on it."

"Well, that's what everyone thought till they got a good history report of the husband." Will said before he grimaced as he gave one final look at the body and sighed. Molly always knew this job would be too much eventually for the ones who had been here the longest.

"Listen... Molly..." he began before he took of his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. "I'm taking a break... No. Not like a coffee break of that sort. Just... a long break from this line of work. Just, a long enough break to get my head straight and where I can look at bodies without... feeling so... sympathetic for them." Will sounded as if he'd begin to sob at any given moment.

Molly felt that perhaps... she'd never ever stop feeling sympathetic for the poor folks who had died far too young and before their time. It wasn't right. It never was, sadly. Perhaps, this poor girl reminded Will too much of his youngest that had tragically died in a hunting accident. The girl lying on the metal slab probably was the spitting image of his daughter on that painful day.

She didn't blame him for wanting to step aside. Who could?

"It's not forever, Molly. Just enough time to breathe. In the meantime, however, I had them call in a replacement. I hear he's a nice chap. Recently married and all. About your age and just as intelligent as you, my dear." Will smiled at Molly and he patted her shoulder lightly.

"You'll be fine. I'm sure of it." Will stated with confidence and reached over to cover the poor girl on the metal table.

"Speak of the devil! There, he is." Will motioned with his eyebrows at the door and Molly turned slowly to see a very tall man walk through.

Good grief... Molly had to swallow her heart almost instantly. That man shouldn't even exist. Molly thought this is what it must have felt like to be looking at a fantastical unicorn that had materialized right before her. Well, one thing was for certain. He wasn't a unicorn, but he was rather... other worldly looking.

"Welcome, Hamish!" Will exclaimed with a familiarity and pulled the young gentleman near Molly where they could be formally introduced.

"Molly, this is Hamish Elms Coloreck. Hamish, this is Molly Holmes."

Molly more than dropped her clipboard as Hamish reached out to shake her hand. There was a second of fumbling over words and looking down in embarrassment before she gave her right hand up to be shook.

"Charmed, indeed." Hamish had a handsome smile. Oh, who was she kidding? Hamish was a handsome devil and she could barely concentrate on anything else.

Funny, though. He was so... stereo typical. Lightly tan complexion, honey orbs, and sun bleached hair. He looked perfect enough to be an endorser rather than be caught probing and cutting up bodies. He was just too perfect! Heavens! Molly had to take a minute to imagine what his wife looked like. The woman was probably the embodiment of the Venus.

"Sherlock Holmes' wife." Will nudged the chap in the arm and chuckled.

"Oh!" Hamish recoiled briefly in shock. "Well! Then I really am working with the best!"

Molly couldn't stop herself from blushing then. Why, yes, Hamish. Flattery did get you everywhere. Too bad for Mrs. Holmes, she didn't quite catch the look the replacement gave her as she turned away to prep the body up for analysis.

Too bad, indeed.

* * *

A dedication is entitled to the first who can solve this case.

HINT: Clues have been blatantly left in all the chapters.

If you're interested in playing this game or just watching how things unfold... then prepare ;) to those of you who are wondering if this will be a fanfic of Molly full on out cheating on Sherlock then the answer is NO. I would stick around and wait before I would jump to any conclusions.

Leave your feedback or flaming marshmallows at the door and I will surely update with the next installment!

To my wonderful reviewers, thank you so very much for the time and effort you've put into reading this and commenting!


	10. Slow & Steady

**Slow & Steady  
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Molly couldn't quite put her finger on Hamish. He was many things, she observed. When he smiled it was genuine and adoring. When he looked at you with those honey orbs he was giving you all of his attention. And when he spoke it was gentle and sweetly caressing your ear drums. He was just... grand!

He was the very thing Molly had always seen on the tube, magazines, and on billboards littered across the city. She was right on her first conclusion: he was perfection incarnated.

It must be something, Molly threw around her head. To be so perfect. What was it like to get up in the morning and not have to do anything save put on clothes, spruce up your hair, and walk out the door? If anything, Molly looked up to the older pathologist. He rather inspired her on her walk to a 'womanly confidence'.

They had established a sort of friendly relationship. The were not yet close of friends but close acquaintances. She rather liked that too! Having someone around her age group being so friendly and relaxed around. Molly wasn't sure when she'd ever experienced something so normal in her life.

"What's it like being married to him?" Hamish had asked her one day with a curious tone of voice. "Sherlock, I mean." He never missed a beat as he wrote down on the death certificates.

To be honest, Molly wasn't even sure **she **knew the answer to that question herself. Wasn't her detective of a husband a lot of things in his own right also? Molly took her time to think of the right adjectives to describe her... peculiar spouse.

"He's intimidating," Molly began at first and noticed when Hamish gave her a sort of unsure glance. He'd probably expected her to gush and describe how she doted on his every whim and command. He probably expected her to be in married bliss—typical.

"It's difficult to describe him. In fact, he's quite difficult himself." Molly laughed at the image of a frowning Sherlock. "But I feel as if I can't really blame him for that at times."

"Sounds rather intense between you two." Hamish grinned.

"I guess it is." Molly smiles, lowers her head and pulls a strand of hair behind her ear. "I've always liked Sherlock in a way that was more than like itself." she felt stupid now for rambling away.

"Ahh," Hamish pulled his glasses from his face and looked up at the woman. "You were always in love with him, weren't you?" It was the way that he said it that had Molly feeling a shiver go down her spine and her face turning pink.

"It was when I saw him at this get-together his parents invited my family to. He had a frown on his face all day and I was so scared to talk to him." a laugh finally erupted from the female pathologist's mouth and her eyes crinkled at the memory. "I swear it was the ugly sweater my mother gave me that had everyone in such a sour mood that day."

The male's face contorted to that of almost a pained expression before he burst out in laughter and threw his head back. "I believe all ugly sweaters put people in a very sour disposition whatever time of the year."

Their laughter echoed around them and the two found a moment of peace in the dreary morgue. Early that day they had came to a conclusion: Death was working over time or at least... over compensating for the little deaths this year in Britain.

It seemed as if riots were spontaneously starting from out of no where and from either sides. Both young and old were suddenly in each others face with a fist or a bat. There had also been a recent string of robberies and hit-and-runs. So many unfortunate bodies were piling up in the morgue and Molly was surprised she still managed to get home in a decent hour and in one piece. The recent tragedies had Molly coming to terms that maybe this was the case that Sherlock had been so intent and distracted on. It was probably him being thoughtful and showing mercy by not telling his wife that she would probably be more than busy the upcoming weeks.

Still, so many things didn't seem to add up with the case. A lot of the situations didn't connect or relate in any way. And the suspects of either situations seemed to still be elusive as ever.

"Do you need me to walk you home?" Hamish had asked when their shift had ended at 9:30PM. Both pathologists were snugly wrapped in their winter coats and scarves. Hamish wore a tan colored trench coat and had a red and black patterned yarn scarf wound around his neck with the ends hanging off his shoulders on either side. He still looked lovely.

"Oh, no, please!" Molly exclaimed loudly and smiled. "It's fine, really! I'll just walk down to the cafe at the curb and take a taxi home." She would never live it down, she guessed. If Hamish walked her home and everyone in the neighborhood saw, especially Sherlock, he'd probably rake her over the coals in the most horrible of ways he knew how.

It would only get worse if her parents and in-laws found out, which she was sure they would. Someone would probably gossip about a 'secret love affair of the new Mrs. Holmes' to the press and local tabloids. Her life would most likely be screwed both ways then.

"Alright, then. Stay safe and be careful, yes? You heard about those robberies—especially on women. Be a shame if you ended up... well, on the deceased list." Hamish's concern was met with a hand on his arm and Molly confidently smiling up at him, she was such a small sweet thing.

"Go home, Hamish. Your wife is waiting for you." and with that Molly backed up, turned around and began to stride down the side-walk. Her feet were quick to move and for a moment she turned partially around to see if Hamish was still there... a taxi sped off into the distance, and Molly sighed.

As Molly hopped-and-skipped the rest of the way down to the cafe she never expected to be watched from the distance.

Never expected to be watched at all.

* * *

I'm sorry to have kept everyone waiting. I had about 3 different ways I wanted to go with this chapter but I finally came to a satisfied decision, haha! I would have uploaded this two days ago but there was a really bad typhoon here and it knocked out our internet. Really bad winds and everything!

As always, love to hear your feedback and c.c.'s :D Leave the flaming marshmallows at the door!

Oh, and a wonderful shout out to those who have guessed Sherlock's disguise and I will dedicate a chapter to those of you that explains everything in the near future. However, the reason you may have originally thought of for his disguise is not-so. Things will unravel with time and patience :0 Really sorry to those who thought it was Sebastion or even Jim. Even though I like my delusional insane men as much as the next person they will not make an appearance in this fanfic.

Also, another wonderful shout out to my readers from all over the world. Makes my heart warm that this has become such an international affair.

P.S. If you are interested, the title is also the name of the song by 'Sleeping At Last' that has gotten me really revved up and inspired.


	11. Moment

**Moment**

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He was exhausted. Absolutely and irrevocably exhausted. He was sure the bags had already formed underneath his eyes and probably looked as if he'd aged about ten plus years. The bottomless pit of his coffee cup seemed to tire him out even more and yet even from the crashes he was still typing away at his cell phone. His eyes were becoming blood-red and unbearably uncomfortable from the contacts. There was rush as his fingertips tapped away at the cell.

'Did you receive the information I sent you? -H'

'Yeah, I got it. Surprised me though. Never thought it would be happening at the hospital. Still keeping tabs on her?'

'Only long enough till everyone is satisfied. - H'

'Well, she's already cleared. Do you really need to keep up with this all?'

'Unfinished Business. -H'

'Fine. I'll do what I can.'

'Thank you. -H'

With a heavy sigh he got up from the couch and began to tear away the remnants of a man he had known to be his Mr. Hyde. The prosthetic bits were easy to pull off more than the bald cap after he discarded his wig. His fake tan was soon to be scrubbed away with some wipes, contacts taken out just as fast, and the remaining clothes he wore that day were neatly folded and placed into a black trash bag. The man he became in the mornings was easily disposed of in a nice black case that fit right underneath the couch cushions and was hardly noticeable.

Sherlock took a moment then to rub his face and stride over to the bathroom. He hurried to clean off whatever was left of the prosthetic glue or tan he had sported around in the last few hours. He was back: Sherlock Holmes lived.

"Eye drops, eye drops..." the detective muttered to himself as he felt around the medicine cabinet for the small unlabeled small container to erase the evidence away of tired and red eyes. The man was a perfectionist. He even went as far as to run some warm water through his hair and splash it onto his face before exiting the small bathroom.

Ah! The door soon opened with a click and a rather cold woman fumbled through with a sneeze.

"Molly, you're late. What took you?" Sherlock quipped sharply as he eyed his wife and the bag of Chinese take-out. "No matter. I'm hungry. Did you buy the crab ragoons?"

"I did and plus an extra box of orange chicken. You seem to always keep stealing mine." the ginger haired pathologist gave her husband an accusing look before handing him the bag. He was in his robe and pajama pants already. Looked as if he had taken a shower in the last minute or two.

"So," Molly tried to start conversation as her husband set the table with two plates and began to dig out the contents of the bag. "Anything good happen today?" Molly's back faced her husband as she put away her coat and scarf and kicked off her shoes by the door.

Sherlock smirked as he stilled himself before taking the next second to separate his chopsticks. _Oh, yes, darling. Something quite good. _Sherlock thought and said over his shoulder. "Yes. You came home." he meant it, actually. Sherlock was really glad she had made it safely to the flat. All in one piece and with food to boot!

But Molly thought he was playing with her like usual and took his words for that of jest. "I'm sure you are,_ darling_." Molly said the last bit with her own hint of joking and turned around to see her husband giving her a very serious look.

"Really..." Sherlock's eyes were softer than usual. "I'm glad."

Molly didn't quite know why her heart suddenly felt as if it would jump from her chest...

"Well," she was a bit shocked but addressed him calmly. "I'm home. I'm back." It felt right to say it.

**Felt so right.**

"Welcome back home," for Sherlock... it felt just as right to say the words. They weren't foreign sounding.

**Not at all.**

* * *

So... I updated... can I have my cookie now? :D Pleeease?!

Thoughts so far? Comments? Delicious marshmallows to share?

It was nice writing this chapter. It was especially fun.


	12. Marred

**Marred**

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"_Teach me. Please?"_

They needn't speak. Words and vocalization were irrelevant. All that was and would be between them was this place and this moment where a man and woman gave each other their attention. He needn't touch her but he did.

Simple. Tender. Honest. Pure.

A hand to her elbow, trailing along her forearm to her wrist, then finally to the back of her hand where his fingertips rested. His eyes were on here in adoration. He never lied when he was with her. He was real. Tangible. There.

Between them and this moment... they were lovers. They were false lovers. They were pretend lovers. They were practice dummies for each other. They pretended to be real. They lived a falsity that lasted mere minutes.

And she was there. Accepting his gazes and the touches. Accepting the fragile intimacy. Accepting the outcome of her request. Though, her hands were too shy and too inexperienced to understand what was to be done or acted upon. She was more flustered and embarrassed than she was shy.

His fingers moved to her wrist once again. He felt her pulse through the thin layer of flesh and veins. He felt her beat steadily with him.

For Molly, to touch Sherlock in this way was almost taboo and a fleeting dream never to be brought back. To touch her husband like this was... impossible... nearly so. Between her and the other pathologist, their pretend emotions felt so real. Their pretend intimacy felt so honest.

The soft tender touches and averting eyes led them to the end of the scenario. Their session of discreet and modest flirting was to a stop. Because something like that could never happen in their realities. Not Molly to her Sherlock nor Molly to Hamish. No way.

Her request had been fulfilled. Hamish had shown her what the simplest of touches and attention could do. He gave her a small demonstration of confidence.

"I'll try. I really will. Thank you." Molly smiled up at the tall blond and watched as he bowed his head and kissed the back of her hand. He shouldn't have done that. He was becoming too selfish.

"Whatever you wish," he jested to her but never met her gaze. How could he? Serenading as someone else to protect her. He felt the consequences of his lie now. Slow and gradual, they were. His insecurities tore away at his mental stability and emotional stance. Could he? Possibly—had he—felt a sort of fear after all this time?

What if she were to fall for this false body? Fall for this fake and nonexistent face? Fall in love with the man that he could never be or be forever? What if she fell in love with Hamish and only Hamish?

It was cruel.

Sherlock suddenly hated this disguise. Suddenly felt jealousy and envy for something he believed Molly to want more than he himself. Sherlock felt bitterness and despised the perfect monster he had so blatantly created.

There was a conclusion to the inner argument: It was all for her. To protect her. To be her confidant. To be her friend.

To be... a **_double agent_**.

"How do you do it, Hamish?" the male pathologist raised his head to Molly as she spoke to him. "Acknowledge and know each other, I mean?" Molly's voice was small yet meaningful. There was always a curiosity brimming out from her.

"Observation." Sherlock had let his own personality and self slip past the wall and character he had placed into view.

Molly's eyes quickly jerked up to his blue ones; because after all of this—she had never truly looked him in the eyes nor searched them like she did now. Her face was all pretty with shock and confusion before it was all erased away with that small smile of hers. A smile that was starting to feel like a familiar home to him.

"You sound like him." her laugh was sweet. "But he doesn't have what you have."

Hamish pulled back his head and frowned. "And pray tell, exactly what is that?"

The answer was simple as it was hard. "Love. Communication. Vulnerability. I guess, simple yet complex things?"

There was that ugly feeling again.

Jealousy.

Jealousy for the open and honest confessions she would make to **him **but not to _Sherlock_.

Then again, feelings and emotions were ugly regardless—or where they?

* * *

I really am sorry that it took a while for me to get this chapter up. After we got back we weren't feeling all too well and were restless. I took another week to get my bearings together and to get back into the habit back at home.

I really do apologize! Here is the next installment. A bit short but I couldn't fit the parts I wanted into this chap for the fact it would seem a bit cut off. There wasn't a way where I could easily transition one thing into another without it feeling forced or a bit out of place.

For those who are a bit confused to what might have happened here: Molly asks for Hamish's help in being more flirtatious. The flirting is discreet, low-key, and somewhat innocent. The flirting was simple as it was a game for the both of them. Molly tries to pretend that Hamish is her Sherlock—when in reality, Sherlock explores Molly more closely and intimately as himself. Of course, this means that Sherlock lets his selfishness get the better of him as he takes the chance to get a better and close look at Molly. Yet he realizes that Hamish is what Molly sees and he feels jealousy for this fake persona of his.

Fret not. There is more jealous Sherlock to be had. This is merely an opening and start of the emotional rift between these two to be explored.


	13. Expectation

**Expectation**

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Molly couldn't justify what she had just done. The paper in her trembling hands had her doing a double take each time she gazed down at the numbers boldly printed against stark white.

"It's not that bad." Molly said to herself and her eyes trailed near to the side where the discarded department store bag had been left. She tried to reason with herself.

"Any amount is too much." she was mumbling and went back over the receipt in her hand and slowly grinned. The female cashier was right, the clothes she had gotten were mere pennies considering the brand and where she bought them... but still... spending money for herself seemed so... so selfish.

"Come on, Molly. It's alright to splurge just a little, right?" Oh, here came the guilt!

If Mrs. Hooper was here she'd probably be chastising her daughter for buying 'fancy' clothes. Why would you pay for clothes, regardless of sale or markdown, when you could use hand-me-downs or easily tailored do it yourself?

Oh! But this was the modern ages! It was about time for Molly to take a step for herself in the right direction. Just... how was she going to pull this off? It wasn't as if the clothes were beyond extravagant. They were just more fitting, nicely patterned and colored, plus also were very up-to-date.

Well, good thing Sherlock had left early today for that secret case of his. This means Molly would have to give Hamish the misfortune of seeing her dressed to... her age. He was a friend, right? He'd be able to help her and give her a man's thoughts on if her clothes fit her before she'd flaunt them to Sherlock.

Perhaps she was coming to terms with her femininity... or she was just crazy. Yep. She must have been crazy! An absolute loon! Buggering mad!

"I thought so..." Molly frowned when Hamish had stared at her with his solemn expression—seemed like someone had died. Grim and distasteful humor for two people who worked in a morgue.

"Does it make me look too old? Or is it just not right?" Molly flattened her palms over her abdomen and frowned down at the cream colored silk blouse.

Hamish frowned at the way his colleague acted and crossed his arms. "Has Sherlock seen this yet?" his voice was deeper than usual. Oh, he must have really hated her clothes!

Molly looked up sheepishly and shook her head 'no'. "I wanted your... opinion first... I trust you. Sherlock wouldn't notice or he'd shoot me down in an instant." She was unsure if she was strong enough to handle that. To see all her hard work burn right before her as Sherlock shrugged her off. He'd probably say rude things. More than likely tell her how 'fashion' did not suit the meek and mousy. Then again, Sherlock would probably give her one look and not care. Perhaps that would be the hardest thing for Molly to come to grips with than any verbal disagreement.

"Asking a man to voice his opinion and thoughts of another man's wife is... cruel, Molly." Hamish cleared his throat and stepped up closer to the female. His body easily towered over her as his hands roamed from her shoulders down to her wrists. There was something behind those blue eyes of his that had Molly not only blushing but intimidated as well. There was danger in the air between them.

Sherlock had to bite his tongue as he looked his wife over. Her clothes were not cheap. She had probably more than broke the bank with this quality piece of cloth. Dare he say it—or admit: Molly was... stunning.

Her clothes neither made her look too gaudy or too dressed up. Her clothes were casual and befitting of her personality. He liked it. The thought of 'liking' something had the disguised detective swallowing a sour taste from his mouth.

"You are exquisite." Hamish confessed and had to pull himself back when Molly gasped and giggled.

"Thank you!" Molly blushed and clasped her hands together. "I hope Sherlock likes it." she didn't know what possessed her to keep talking but she did. "I-I just wasn't sure, you see. I couldn't go home to Sherlock and find out he didn't approve."

Hamish had busied himself with papers; he couldn't look at Molly and not get a sort of reaction. He was both seething and... confused. He was seething at the fact his very own wife had come to a man she trusted and asked for his approval before she had gone to Sherlock himself. Her husband. That was down right betrayal in his book. Well, maybe not exactly to the severe extent. But still! How dare she?! How could she?!

The confusion bit... was from the jealousy, yet... the feeling stirring somewhere in the pit of his stomach had the detective anxious. It was disgusting. He had found interest in his wife... not just attraction but actual... affection. The feeling wasn't familiar nor did he know what kind of 'affection' he had for Molly.

What was all this? He was not only attracted to her but... had feelings. What were they? Marital feelings? A fine line brimming towards love? No, that couldn't be.

Oh! This was all too much! Emotions. Feelings. Love. Affection. Jealousy. What was going on? Why was this so much harder to understand and simplify? Why was everything so complicated and so... difficult! Everything was so bloody difficult when it came to his human aspect.

Sherlock pondered momentarily... was he even normal? Was he normal enough for society's standards? Well? Was he? Or was he just ill? Must be. Right?

"I don't think he knows that... I'm afraid." Hamish was veered from his thoughts and he gazed over at Molly; she had placed her lab coat over her clothes and pulled her hair to the side and away from her face. She looked unsure now.

"Afraid of what?" he asked softly.

"Of his approval. Of what he thinks of me. Of what might never be." she was talking far too serious now.

"Might never be?" he questioned her.

"You know? Love." Molly cleared her throat a little before continuing. "It's silly right? Wanting him to love me back. Even just a little."

"Why do you need love? Can't you just... live without it? It's bothersome and tedious and pointless." Sherlock was beginning to break through his disguise and he wasn't even noticing. He was treading on dangerous ground. He was so close to blowing his cover.

"You sound exactly like him," her tone of voice was not condescending in the least. It was nostalgic.

"Love is the greatest mystery known to man." How simple.

He began to dislike that smile she showed rather frequently, "Maybe it's Sherlock's greatest challenge as well."

Molly was brilliant without even knowing it.

Sherlock felt offended.

Was she challenging him?

* * *

Reviews, rants, thoughts, comments are most welcomed and encouraged :D Flaming marshmallows will be eaten and disregarded!

To me, Sherlock is very disassociated with the world and especially people. I don't think he's incapable of empathy and emotions and such. However, if he ever felt such things. They would be... strange. Weird.


	14. Blind

**Blind**

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He was having nightmares.

Always the same nightmares. Time and time again. There was just no way around it. This personal hell his drug-induced brain had created for him. He was sure it was drugs. Some sort of liquid pumping through his veins to ease whatever suffrage he faced.

The side effects weren't agreeable in the least.

It would start out a dream. Always her soft hand being gentle and gliding against his porcelain skin. No scar, no cut, no mar was laid to rest against such alabaster perfection as she coddled _**him. **_

Of course, the dream slowly twisted and turned into a puzzle. A puzzle he would have to force himself to solve, regardless of whatever state he was in. He lurched over quickly and began to cough, groaning against the cold washcloth pressing against his heated forehead. There was no more strength left within his lean body—yet, he managed to open his eyes.

Her flaming hair was what he noticed first. It was brighter—No! Vibrant than usual. Something like an obnoxious beam against the stark white of light bursting through the room. He finally recognized where he was. Soft sheets, broad sleeping space, and a familiar scent.

He was in his bedroom.

"Why am I here?" his voice was hoarse. It was weak. It was frightened.

Molly had such an unreadable expression on her face as she placed her hand on his bare chest. Sherlock began to panic and he scrambled away from his wife before she grabbed his wrist gently... coaxing him to stay—to him—she was coaxing him to be vulnerable.

"Where is John?!" Sherlock exclaimed and he looked around, heavily breathing, and reeling from the nausea and dizziness overcoming him. He suddenly felt suffocated and open. Too open.

"You collapsed."

Sherlock finally stilled and he brought his downcast eyes up to his frail wife's face. Yes, she was frail. She had gotten far too thin. She had gotten far too unrecognizable. What had happened?

He was afraid to touch her, but just as afraid to fight back. There was such... such... a poor and desolate feeling surrounding her. The feeling he recognized. Molly was lonely. Molly was lonely, again...

"What can I do?" she asked brokenly.

In this nightmare he would always say the same thing over and over again. It was always the truth.

"Leave me alone. I don't need you." _I'm scared of you. I'm scared of what you're offering me. I'm scared of what you're willing to give. I'm scared of—__**everything.**_

It was if time stood still and there was a conflict. Something lurched inside of him and he realized that those dreaded consequences he heard of so many times were rearing their ugly heads around the corner. With all that, the surrounding ambient noise quieted and he was left with himself. Molly was no where in sight and from what was white and bright and vivid had turned into utter dark solitude.

Solace or Solitude?

Sherlock wanted one, but dreaded the other.

Which was it?

It was hard keeping his emotions at bay. It was hard keeping resolve. It was hard controlling himself.

What was happening to him?

"It's called love, Sherlock." this nightmare of his had progressed. It always did. Everything was fast paced and blurring lines of his rationality and sanity. There was always a voice. Sometimes it felt as if there were more.

"You're really fighting it... why?" it was a whimsical sounding question. He would amuse what ever was hiding in the shadows of his room. The shadows of his mind.

"It? Pray tell, what is **it **exactly?" he knew what **it **was. He always knew. He could just never stomach _**it.**_Just couldn't accept _**it.**_

The voice would taunt him sometimes. I suppose it depended on how much drugs were being given to him.

"You don't hate her. You hate _something_, just not her." the voice was merely inches from his ear. He felt the chill.

"Vulnerability. Suffocation. Release." the words slowly came spilling out of Sherlock's mouth. He had faced the truth now.

"Human..." the voice sympathized with him. "A human, being afraid of being... human."

Sherlock's reply was simple, "Yes."

For Sherlock, even he was confused as to why he was afraid of letting go and releasing a hold from himself. He was only holding himself back. No one ever did that, but—himself. Sherlock's own mortality was an ugly truth about himself. He wished he could kill and bury it.

"Loneliness misses its friend." the voice wasn't talking about Sherlock. It was talking about Molly. "You're always being selfish, Sherlock. Keeping her all to yourself." the voice creeped closer and it softened significantly. Dreams. They never made sense to him.

"Why not let her save you? The price is your pride. Not so much when you realize what hangs in the balance._ If_ you ever do realize, that is."

Unbeknownst to Sherlock that on the other end his wife and his friend John were taking care of him. Concern glued itself onto their faces as they tried their best to help the man get through an ordeal. John would come and minister drugs to his unconscious friend whenever he could. Molly would do her job by making sure he was comfortable in his own bed and watching him night and day. She was quite happy in her choice to call in sick to take care of her husband. This was as close as any of them could get without things being awkward.

For Sherlock however, catching the flu was not on his agenda nor was being found passed out on the couch in the first place ideal.

The double life had taken its toll on the poor detective's body. The constant switching between Hamish and Sherlock caused a taxing consequence on the male. He was far too engrossed with it all that if he had paid much more closer attention to himself—he would have been able to avoid the embarrassment.

Lately, he was slipping up more than usual.

One day, the detective had confessed his unfortunate ordeal to John with the fact that he had forgotten to put in his contacts a number amount of times. John had asked about his well-being when he noticed just how paler his friend had gotten but of course that didn't matter to the other male.

"Blue eyes, John! I had forgotten again today! Curse it all!" Sherlock paced back-and-forth in his friend's flat and chewed on his lip. Something that was new and utterly not Sherlock Holmes. A certain type of panic and ridiculousness that John hadn't ever seen in his friend before.

The detective managed in the end. It was a simple cover up though. Molly had believed her friend Hamish's excuse that his honey colored eyes were actually—contacts. A gift his wife had given him. And merely to humor the silly girl he would wear the contacts now-and-then. However, due to the colder weather his eyes had gotten quite sensitive, and he chose to wear them less, and less often, nearly without at times. A simple lie to cover up his mistakes.

Molly found the excuse strange but her relationship with Hamish had become so familiar and honest that she let the weird feeling pass. Hamish would never lie about something so ridiculous. He was much more than that. Hamish was a man of integrity and respect. Hamish had proved himself to be a wonderful ally of Molly's. Why in the world would she have doubts about him now?

This entire situation with Molly was a risk! Everything up to this point was an horrible risk. Sherlock knew this truth. He could have avoided them all completely but the game was much too fun a challenge. He was stupid, as John swiftly commented.

So, he paid the price.

One measly little flu.

"One day, Sherlock, this will all come back!" John's warning rang true and loud.

At the time, he had merely scoffed and said, "Then let us pray that karma is oblivious to the fact of my step ahead."

Well, perhaps karma wasn't that oblivious, Sherlock.

* * *

Hello friends :) It's been quite awhile, yes? I do apologize! Things have gotten a bit crazy on my end! I hope this pleases you until further updates ;) Please review, comment, leave C.C.'s and flaming marshmallows :D

Thank you very much and enjoy this chapter as I go type away into the night for the next installment!


	15. You

**I Am Human**

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Sherlock sat upright in his bed with a thermometer hanging out from the corner of his mouth. Dark bags were in stark contrast to him sporting sallow, and sickly pale skin. Seemed as if he had aged significantly the past two weeks. He had tried to make sense of what had happened on the days he was conscious, only shortly before drifting off to sleep, and having Molly worry—again.

Beeping interrupted Sherlock's personal calm, when abruptly his wife had materialized beside him and scared the poor detective senseless. He could feel his heart pound against his ribs as he tried to keep himself still. There wasn't much he could do in his vegetable like state. He was too tired to talk, too tired to move, but not too tired to stare at Molly casually.

Apparently, his doting wife had gotten her hair colored the past week. Or perhaps Molly had always had ginger hair and Sherlock had never noticed until he inexplicably stared the female down with his eyebrows furrowed almost as if he were furious. What was going on with him? Being thrown off his groove by the curiosity of hair color and what not. Did it really matter? Was he that bored?

"I made chicken soup... again." Molly's voice trailed off while she sat beside the ailing man, and blew steam from the bowl of soup, trying to cool what she could of it.

How Sherlock ever managed to move his mouth was beyond him. His jaw felt as if it was forcibly being pried open. It felt as if his jaw was rusty and out of balance. It was a throbbing sort of pain but not unbearable.

"I hope it's okay," Molly blew the steam from the soup once again, and tested it against her lips—licking whatever liquid was there and slowly placing the spoon between her husband's mouth, soon after.

Something was different today. Sherlock could just not keep his eyes off his wife. There was just a sort of invisible glue sticking his eyes on one spot. And that one spot was Molly. Perhaps he could now check off 'Staring At Molly' as his new past time. Maybe the answer lie in how she wore the word 'simple' quite well. It was pestering him. This need to just stare the woman down till she either told him to stop (in which he would ignore by continuing on staring) or if she ran away.

Sherlock just could not get his bloody eyes off her for some cursed reason! He must have still been incurably sick for nothing had his attention this long! At least not a woman!

"Molly," Sherlock's voice was husky and strained. Molly's eyes widened and she pulled back to place the bowl onto the side table next to the bed. Her hands were warm and comforting once they rested against her husband's forehead and cheek. Sherlock's eyes fluttered and he groaned softly; taking too much joy and pleasure with the physical contact.

"What is it, Sherlock?" she whispered.

"You're..." he wheezed. "Really..." he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply; words were hard to describe his feeling suddenly. "Beautiful."

**Well, that was random and strange. And so not... like him.**

Months ago... Molly would have blushed at the words. However, at this current point in time. Molly couldn't believe in them. He was sick. He was still on medication. He didn't know what he was saying. Yeah! That's got to be it!

The Sherlock she knew would never say such a thing... at least not like this...

So, against her better judgment and to the chagrin of her heart; she had to shrug the resurfacing emotions and hope off. _Don't come back. _Molly swallowed away her own selfish thoughts and desires and had to focus on her ailing husband—who probably lost a few marbles from the medications.

"U-uh... T-thank you?" the blush was eminent as she replied weakly.

Molly was quick to smile shyly, lower her eyes, and twiddle her thumbs in thought of what to do next. He needed to finish his soup. Sherlock had lost quite a bit of weight and was probably only awake long enough for a few spoonfuls of whatever his stomach would settle for. Did he remember any of the rest of his meals when he was awake? Did he remember vomiting up the tomato soup after the couple spoonfuls and passing out the next moment? Did he remember any of the embarrassing things he had done while conscious?

There was a uncomfortable silence looming closely over them, that was until Sherlock rested further against the pillows, and looked at Molly with a sort of forlorn wanting. She misread this as him upset at having a need not met and was quick to say, "What is it, Sherlock? Do you need something?"

Molly was caught off guard now. His long, cold fingers were pressing against her cheek, trailing up to her temple and resting there momentarily. A copper tinged strand was brushed away and that forlorn look was now replaced with something almost serious—just too serious for the both of them.

"You."


	16. Cheek-2-Cheek

**Cheek-2-Cheek**

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Molly was all red-faced and a sputtering nonsensical mess.

"I-I-what-what? Where d-d-did that c-come from? You're just i-ill!" Molly shouted out from nerves, stood up from her position on the bed, and hurriedly rushed out of the room with the soup bowl in her hands. What on earth was wrong with him? What kind of ridiculous joke was that? He HAD to have been messing with her! No way, in her years of knowing Sherlock in and outside of marital status, would he be so... so... open out of the goodness of his heart or just because he wanted to finally make peace. Hog-wash! Needed her? Pfft! Of course he **needed **her! But she sure as pie didn't **need **him! Currently, not in** _that_ **way, at least!

"Mollyyyy... pleassse!" Sherlock whined loudly from his room—a pillow flew out the door before knocking over a picture frame. Somewhere along its joyful ride, the offending feather-filled cushion aimed right squarely at a pile of papers sitting on Sherlock's desk—soon, a blanket of white and black scribbles covered the floor. Some sheets even still floating around to further places of the flat.

"Mollyyy!" Sherlock hollered louder this time and wiggled in his bed. "A man has needs, Molly! Needs! Why are my needs not important suddenly?!" Was there no stopping him? "If it makes you feel better for the part, I'll even call you Nurse Molly!" That part in particular was thrown out in a mumble as a side thought.

_Needs, Sherlock? What about my bloody needs?!_ Molly thought, frowning as she poured the left over soup into a container and gently placed it in the fridge. There was a half-hope that her husband's sexually aroused tirade was going to end soon. Very soon. Even if it was a half-hope. It was hope, nonetheless.

"There are other ways, Sherlock! Other ways." Molly dropped the pot into the sink once she had realized what passed her lips. What was she doing? She was giving him ideas! Never ever give **_that_ **man ideas! Mercy, Where was her mind today? Oh, that's right—it had wasted away in taking care of an ailing detective! What mind would any rational woman have left in taking care of Sherlock Bloody Holmes?

Well, at least her wish was being answered. Could you hear it? No? Perfect. Silence. Such perfect and calm silence. There was never something so sweet to the pathologist's ears. Molly swore in that second all of the two weeks stress came crashing over her. Her eyes were probably dark and red, maybe even her body slowly slouched even further against the counter, and she probably looked as if she had been through a wind tunnel. The female could just imagine her own turbid image with hairs sticking out all around her head. Like a crown of grease and copper strands. Ew.

When was the last time she actually took a **long **shower? One where she didn't quickly jump out as she did jumping in. Worried, that even for a minute, something might have happened to her comatose husband if she wasn't light on her feet.

Now, the silence was just becoming a bit too familiar. There wasn't even an echo from a creak of the bed. It was just dead silence.

The wife panicked! What else was she to do? Molly rinsed her hands and wiped them on her apron which she fumble to untie. Her feet sprinted across the dull wood and she finally threw the apron over a chair.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, are you oka—" Molly stood at the side of the empty bed; her pretty brown eyes were glued on the messy, white sheets before darting around till they landed on the closed bathroom door.

"Molly," the bedroom door was slowly pushed shut till the tiniest 'click' registered in the pathologist's head as the lock—

"Get in the bed, Molly." Sherlock braced himself against the door. His robe barely covered his naked shoulders and his pajama pants rested just over the lowest part of his hips. He noted how his pretty, little wife swallowed at the realization that her escape, was being blocked by a 6 foot tall slab of naked flesh.

"Couldn't we just t-talk about t-this..." It was quite hard to talk when one's glistening, more-than-partially-naked husband was shrugging off his last means of cover up. Oh, was she drooling or was that blood running down her chin?

"I," Sherlock let the robe fully fall away as he stepped closer to her. "Said," his large hand smoothed his dark locks away from his eyes. "Get in..." the same large hand was now running down from his neck, gently smoothing the formed droplets of sweat over his chest... down his flat stomach. "The bed."

It was for certain. Molly was bleeding profusely from the nasal cavity and was dying from extensive blood loss. She had to be. There was just no way a woman saw a strip-tease of Sherlock Holmes and lived to tell the tale of such a rare sight! There was just no way anyone could survive that!

"Well," Sherlock frowned. The woman had passed out on his bed. "Sherlock Holmes always gets his... woman."

Now, you may have began to imagine the most dirtiest ways to spend alone time with a passed out (and more-than-willing) wife. But believe me, his intentions were innocent. Honestly! All the poor ailing man needed from his wife was for her to be his body pillow. Temporary body-pillow. Dare he say it, he was rather looking forward to hugging his wife closely. Don't ask him why he needed her in such a way and in his current vulnerable state. Sure, Sherlock was heavily medicated, but he was practically harmless! Like a four year old trapped in a man's body.

And what would any sensible four year old boys do? Cuddle whatever was within their vicinity. Especially, when they weren't in tip-top shape, of course!

Unfortunately for the pathologist... she was in... Sherlock's vicinity.

* * *

Oh, you dirty minded little stinks ;)

Not close... yet not quite far.

Please, comment or leave a C.C.! I love all forms of feedback :) And they are all appreciated!


	17. Form

**Form**

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Molly found her bearings when she gained consciousness.

Slipping away from the man who had formed around her, and held on as if she were his teddy. Molly found her escape and took it. Slowly unwinding and setting herself free from the warmth she had come to enjoy in the brief proximity. How many moments were they to have where one wasn't manipulated into the situation?

At the edge of the bed she sits; thinking and mulling over what could happen now. If anything, Sherlock is to regain his health. That was the first on her priority list; she had made it severely clear to her manager. It wasn't a lie that she missed her co-workers and job. At least there, she could socialize a little. In reality, it's the stunt that Sherlock had pulled on her earlier that has gotten her still on pins and needles. Stunts like those are what confuse her to no extent. Always in disbelief of what happens between them. Never sexual but always exciting.

"I've always noticed you." Sherlock's voice reaches her from out of the darkness, and Molly jumps though her reply is mere silence. "Always."

"Sherlock," Molly grips the bed sheets and bites her tongue. "Do you love me?" it's uncharacteristic coming from Molly. Because the girl Sherlock has known would never be so frank. So open about her feelings and thoughts.

In a sort of haze, Sherlock has to contemplate his next move. He was being too decisive. Treating her as if she were a case. This action would more than likely be a hindrance to the man.

He hesitates and finally says, "I... I love you." It's the hesitation that sparks doubt within his wife.

The reaction he gets is something he never expected. Molly leans over to her husband and kisses his forehead as if he were nothing more than her son. From what he hears lingering in her voice he knows that she doesn't believe him.

"Someday the words will have a meaning." Molly plays with his curls and strokes his cheek. "Someday, I hope."

"Molly," Sherlock whispers. "Do you love me?"

Molly has gotten stronger and has gained more confidence over the months. Before, the words would have made her cry out and break down. Before, the words would have had her at his feet vulnerable and red-faced. Now, she feels nothing but honesty for her husband. Because for Molly, that's all she expects to be the best of the situation between them. Her bit of honesty mixed with whatever he was willing to give her save the notion of love and what it asked of him.

"I have always loved you." Molly wanted to say proudly, but her voice is hushed, and fleeting as the words come out. "Always. You just never cared."

It's the words that make the detective grimace and bathe in the juices of guilt and shame. He believes every word she has said to him. Just... she doesn't believe any of the words he had said to her.

"Molly," in the dark her husband tries to find her hands and grip them as gently as he can. "I'm being sincere about every—" but he's lost her. Molly rises from the bed and dismisses everything as being a drug induced boldness that wasn't like Sherlock. Tells him to rest and that she'll check up on him later and the door closes.

Alone in the dark is the only time that Sherlock feels naked and suffocated.

He's alone with himself.

He's cold without her.

Without Molly.

Sherlock realizes how much he needs her.

* * *

Sherlock faces the sad consequences with his little game. Spurn a woman one too many times and she can't ever believe you wholeheartedly.

Please feel free to leave any comments, constructive criticism, or anything else :)

**P.S. _The name change isn't anything to be concerned about :) Merely, no one understood what my previous name meant and it confused those who did._**


	18. Shame

**Shame**

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Molly just couldn't sleep right as of late. Especially, not after seeing her husband's flushed naked body so vividly bright and in plain view. At first, Molly hated herself for having such risque thoughts and fantasies in the daytime. However, when the night was free to run, and bring sleep to most people—Molly tossed and turned in bed. Her thoughts ablaze with Sherlock-fever.

In her dreams, Sherlock was kinder to her. Literally, her dream man.

Sherlock took care of her there. Always the one to smile with his eyes and never with his mouth. Because he was used to grinning and smirking—that's all his pretty lips knew how to form. In her dreams, Sherlock was every ounce of gentleman that she knew he was but only in her dreams. Only there.

In her dreams, he was all these things and more. He'd never utter a single word to her then. Always using his eyes and actions to bring forth his point or thought. He listened to Molly, and that was something that had won her over.

Such tenderness would she feel in his hands as they touched her arms whenever Molly dreamed of walking out the door. His blue eyes would beg her in the smallest of ways to not stray far. And in those slim lips, as they pressed a chaste kiss against her temple, held the feeling of trust and comfort.

There were nights when the dreams escalated. Nights where they made love in the quiet and still place of her mind. Whenever Molly would reach to touch Sherlock, he would not pull away. It felt so right to do this with him. It felt like actual love-making. The love between them was bare and naked in all sense. He would not run from the way she looked at him. Nor from the way she tenderly touched, and caressed his skin, more often than naught. Between Molly's mind and in the secret of the night—Sherlock loved her.

Truly.

It was the mornings that would break the pathologist's heart a little. Each morning was a realistic reminder that Sherlock did not need her. Did not love her. Did not count on her.

At first. it was easy to just make due with what she could all those past months. Easy to smile and linger on the sidelines and somewhat coexist with this man. But as of late, she wanted more. Molly Holmes wanted a husband. The desire burning within her was not wholly pure lust nor was it wanting the detective in the physical aspect. It was so simple. Molly just wanted to be a family with him. To be **his **family. Sherlock definitely needed it, and Molly was more than willing to offer it.

It may have been a horrible thing to say but... she was glad that Sherlock relied on her when he had gotten sick. Glad to finally be able to act like a married couple if anything else.

Unfortunately, it broke Molly's heart even more. Is this what she had turned into? A woman who found sick pleasure in the pitiful state of her husband only to find a sort of reassurance and place? By the end of the week, Molly was sick of herself. Of course she was. What from all the stress she had put on, and from making sure Sherlock would stay in one place—it was all too much.

Without the medications Sherlock would wonder half-consciously through-out the flat. He probably wouldn't recall doing so later on. Usually he sat and leaned against the couch or chair. His blue eyes had dark circles underneath them, and the way he looked at her was heartbreaking. Molly would try and talk to him. Try to get him to eat something, but it never lasted. That small peace. Eventually, Sherlock would throw up the food. Become irritated and somewhat aggressive that he would throw himself into a full stride to get away from her. As if she were the bad guy.

Looks that poked holes of doubt and sadness into Molly's heart.

Would he always look at her like that? Suspicious and filled with contempt? Would he ever **try** to see her as something much more? Even a little..?

_Does__ he really... hate me?_

Perhaps those emotions, mixed in with Molly's already matured love for him, and frustrations towards herself, sparked the restless nights. An unhealthy concoction of 'Go Screw Yourself' thrown right into her face.

In times of emotional need, Molly had then tried to turn to her friend Hamish, but he never answered.

It took approximately four unanswered phone calls to give Molly the hint that she—was bothering her own friend with such mundane things. It took less than four seconds for the guilt and shame to sink in.

The last straw was most definitely when Sherlock had cornered her in the bedroom. Gluing her to the bed and holding her with such warm, pale, and neatly defined muscled arms. He wasn't helping. He was just making everything worse. So much worse.

Molly believed in Sherlock. Honestly.

But... Molly didn't believe in Sherlock's honesty.

The day Molly was finally able to go back to work, and at least a bit happy to finally see Hamish—

There was a letter placed on her small desk that had her name scribbled on it. The simple yet elegant printed letters formed words that tore into her piece by piece.

'I'm sorry.' he had written. 'I have responsibilities that need attending to.' was the next line... With each word that Molly read further on, her reality crashed around her. 'Unfortunately, my wife is suffering from an illness and I need to be there for her. I need to take care of her.'

Hamish was gone. He had left and without a simple goodbye. Surely, this letter couldn't have been enough to say farewell to her or to their friendship entirely. It just couldn't be!

Molly never knew just how hard she had cried. Especially, over a man. _Her friend. _

The rest of the day went on as usual. No bodies but just a bunch of paper work. By the end of it all, Molly was finally back home in the small flat. Sherlock hadn't even arrived yet from the looks of it.

Molly just couldn't wait to fall back asleep and to meet her husband there in her dreams. Maybe the sadness would transfer, and he would be able to comfort her. Arms holding her tightly, cheek pressed against the side of her face, and as he whispered sweet nothings into her ear.

Maybe that would ease a bit of the sorrow. _Maybe_...

Molly hadn't even noticed that her body moved on automatic as it sat in front of the now roaring fireplace. Her tears dribbled down her face. Why was she always alone? Molly thought to herself. Why was she always the first to be picked in fate's jokes. Couldn't she get something nice once in awhile? Just why... why was she so in love with Sherlock that it just turned out that he despised her? Why was he making it a goal to constantly show how much he could care less about her existence? Everything was in disarray.

**Why? **_Why_? **Why?** _Why?_

"I just want a happy ending," Molly tried hugging herself to fight off that unbearable coldness. It didn't work. Molly felt even more alone in the space.

Molly supposed she would just accept the reality that was hers. She was awkward with no friends, and no husband. The most—if it would let her—was to get a pet, and pour whatever remaining love she had into it.

At a time like this—Molly would have been glad to not have noticed her husband as he watched her.

For the first time, he didn't lie to her.

Sherlock was going to take care of his wife.

* * *

A bit of angst for the up coming sweetness overload; with an added kick of sourness.

I wanted to personally say thank you, to the wonderful people who have kept up, and kept faith in the story :)

Please feel free to leave comments and C.C's


	19. Clothes

**Clothes**

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He rubbed the chiffon between his thumb and forefinger; his left hand mimicking the same action with his white cotton collared shirt. Molly had numerous colored cotton shirts, a couple chiffon, and handful of silk blouses embellished with delicate beige lace. The rest of her casual clothes were thrown without regard in the drawers next to the wardrobe. A sign that she hadn't shaken off the old habit.

The main bedroom didn't smell like Molly in the least; this disappointed Sherlock. He quite liked the warm amber and peach body mist she had hid within her purse. The scent fits her personality rather well. And secretly Sherlock had grown accustomed to smelling it on rare occasions. Sherlock presumed that his wife was trying to preserve the original smell of the room. As if she wanted the room to smell like **him **and only him.

Molly had kept to herself as of late. Naturally, Sherlock had to investigate—his own wife. It was the simple things that had piqued the detective's interests. Whenever their eyes met; Molly was always the first to quickly look away and busy herself. Almost as if it burned to look at him.

"I got you peaches." Sherlock had said as he placed a plate of the evenly sliced fruit in front of his wife. It was easy to see how Molly's face lit up, and how her lips formed the smallest of grins.

"Thank you." Molly had replied softly, but she didn't look up when she spoke._ Why was she trying to avoid him?_

And then one day, Sherlock had called his mother-in-law in the guise of a friendly, and loving phone call. The detective's real intentions were to gain information about his _loving _wife. Interesting... After all this time—he still didn't know her. It bothered the man enough to stoop so low.

Sherlock wasn't completely oblivious to the fact that, Mr. & Mrs. Hooper, could have really cared less about their daughter. It seemed to be a rather well known fact, that the Hoopers, had always wanted boys, but instead they were gifted with a little bundle of joy. Hence the strange parenting of Sherlock's in-laws. He wasn't sure if it was spite or utter confusion in raising a girl in almost strange obscurity from society's norms.

"If you ask me it's almost surprising how she turned out!" Mrs. Hooper said in a shocked tone of voice. "Strong and independent! That was what I told Thomas our girl would raise up to be! But was she? Oh no! Not in the least! When she was nineteen she had gotten so emotional after her father had forgotten about the opera they were supposed to attend! The pitiful girl sat alone through-out the entire thing while Thomas was out with the chaps having a bit of fun. In all honesty, I believe Molly knew very well her father always went out on Fridays. Trying to wiggle her selfish ways into the poor man's hobbies, she was!" Mrs. Hooper rambled without stopping for air.

"The real shocker came when she saw you at that formal party your parents held many years ago! We had always taught her to not be interested in such frivolous things!" Sherlock's ears picked up eagerly on where the subject was going. "Molly begged me to let her talk to you, but at that time I was protective of her reputation, and self worth. It's nothing against you, my dear boy. Merely, I was being what a good mother should be! She was always asking about you, and wondering what you were interested in, et cetera! I'd always have to push her harder on her studies, and not to focus on you so her grades wouldn't fail! Eventually, I said to her that if her school reports were good, and that she excelled well, that I'd try and let her meet you. I never wanted to bother you or your dear mother with such a besotted child!"

The conversation went on as such: Sherlock listened, and Mrs. Hooper spilled every little detail about her daughter without much thought. _Or remorse._

"Later down the road I told Molly that if she were a lady, and behaved well as such, then she could come along when I met your mother for tea at your parents' estate. Oh, you should have seen her! Dressed prim and proper with such poise that you'd wonder if she were capable of such things now!" Mrs. Hooper laughed and sighed at the _fond_ memory. "I always knew she had done it just to impress you and your brother. Even though I appall such a show of blatant seduction! Fortunately for you, and I, Molly would rarely see you. That, or she'd be too busy gorging herself on food in the breakfast nook that she would miss you when you came to pay your mother your respects. Though, I can't say that I didn't have a personal hand in making sure she wouldn't bother any of us!" Mrs. Hooper had a haughty way in how she spoke. The woman thought she was amazing in her tactical skill. No, she was a horrible person. Regardless of how much she wanted to protect her child. No, Mrs. Hooper wasn't preparing or helping Molly for the future or real world. The woman was just keeping Molly out of her and everyone else's way. Perhaps in her mind the woman was doing the world some good—but in all reality—she proved to be the hindering rock in the middle of the road for her own daughter.

It made much more sense now. Why Molly had such a peculiar personality, and a very anxious, and awkward feel about her.

Thankfully the conversation ended before Sherlock lost his patience.

Dare he think it, Sherlock saw his wife in a slightly whole new light. The pieces were finally falling together. Molly became a much more relatable human being. For Sherlock, Molly became even easier to read now. There was one thing that her parents failed to cover up though... Molly's child-like innocence. Molly found good in even the most soiled person. At least, she believed so. But it took a special kind of person to see some good in another human... Sherlock pondered for a moment if the womanly aspect of his wife was slowly starting to push herself forward. And if there was a constant battle between Molly's mature female instincts, and her much more innocent self. He was intrigued now. Very. The subject of his experiment never seemed dull. Not for long, at least.

Molly hadn't any time to fidget with the door knob as she held two grocery bags in each hand. What with the weight of her purse on her shoulder and the bags in both hands; the poor female was tired as she was being weighed down. When Sherlock had opened the door and reached for not only the bags but for Molly's purse as well—she hadn't any time to be shocked as Sherlock held the door with his foot and motioned her to come in first.

By the time Molly had taken off her coat and shoes she stood behind the kitchen table staring hard at her husband. Oh no... he was wearing **that **shirt.

The deep purple did nothing, but accentuate the sort of masculine sex appeal Sherlock openly oozed, the way the fabric clung to his torso was illegal (Molly was sure of it!), and finally—the shirt paired with the fitted black pants were a dangerous combination of making a heart combust within any female's chest cavity.

Good grief, Molly couldn't even mutter a 'thank you' without averting her gaze that was NOT in Sherlock's general direction. Molly swore that if she stared anymore at her husband with such wanton eyes that her insomnia may never let up!

"Thank you for that." Molly blushed, and she clasped her hands together in front of her. "For opening the door and getting all the bags and things." Lord have mercy! Molly was rambling!

It took a minute before Sherlock realized why Molly was acting so strangely. He couldn't help but smile and bully her a little bit more.

"You're most welcome." Sherlock said in a low and smooth voice. Molly backed away as he advanced. "What kind of a man, let alone husband, would I be if I were to let you do such a task all by yourself."

Molly's face became abnormally red, and she bit her lip. She loved the way his voice could be so perfect.

"W-w-well," Sherlock watched amused as his wife stuttered, and he brought a red hair lock up to his mouth and ran it along his lips. He was sure Molly saw this because when he made a show to twirl the hair around his fingers the poor female ran away in embarrassment; she slammed the bedroom door with force and locked it for good measure!

It just wasn't fair! Molly fumed. He wasn't allowed to be that handsome! Let alone in clothes! Oh, Molly was for certain she would die a young virgin if Sherlock kept up to such mind games!

* * *

I had to throw in the 'Purple Shirt of Sex' for everyone. Because that shirt is infamous! Hahaha!

Thank you wonderful folks for the reviews!

Please leave me your descriptive 'feelz' and comments and constructive criticisms!

Thank you! ;)


	20. Dreams

**Dreams**

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They experimented with touching recently.

Sherlock was gentle, yet very shy, as he prodded the back of Molly's forearm. Not once would she ever move or disrupt the flow of sensual curiosity between them. Sherlock was like a curious beast. A beast that was curious, majestic, and very much strong-willed. She couldn't help but find him to be exotic when he would do something unexpected; like touching her.

Some days, his gentle prods would turn into that of mindless caressing, and then eventually his hand would fully grab hold of her skin. Molly was sure he felt the skin prickle and harden into tiny bumps. Soon after, he found the small patches of sensitive flesh that had her in a tangled mess of nerves. In those times, Molly found it hard to not keep quiet.

"You don't know what you do to me." her voice was playful as she tried to slip away from him. Molly wasn't offended by the contact, merely she was just alarmed, and turned on at the same time. Her dreams were beginning to take fruit in reality; Molly found the combination to be extremely vexing and strange.

In her dreams, Molly would initiate their foreplay that would lead to love-making in the end. Feminine hands would fill the empty, and lone spaces of his much larger ones. Her small lips would ever so softly place little adoring kisses onto his chest, up to his neck, and eventually onto his cheek. What it would feel like to kiss the prominence of his cheeks, she mused to herself. It was from there (that her dream husband) would pull her quietly into his frame, and they would move around the room to a nonexistent music box playing in the background. The soft 'tinks' of the melody would guide them around the floor. Gliding on instinct and talent.

Usually, at this phase of the dream, Sherlocks' face would be comfortably rooted into the crook of her small neck as he inhaled her perfume. His head hung low, his left hand held her in place at the dip of her back, while his right intertwined with her small fragile fingers. They were a ferocious pair of seduction and mystery.

Molly's dream Sherlock would eventually raise his head, rest his cheek against her forehead, and run his eyes to the left of her hand. The small band encircling her ring finger would be his reminder of who, and what she was... and maybe even... what she stood for. _Him._

But... that was just a dream... right?

Dreams were supposed to be fleeting and other-worldly.

Strange thing is—Molly wasn't finding herself alone in a bed when things had calmed down. When the lustful haze had cleared from her eyes and head... well, she found herself in the arms of her husband. Dreams weren't meant to come true... right? Right? Then why—this?

"Are you... a-are you, uh... I mean. D-do I-I—" Molly stuttered huskily and she hugged Sherlock tighter. "Do... I... make you happy?"

How could he explain just how he felt these past few days..? Happy? No, it was so much more. Molly made him somewhat joyful. He wasn't bouncing off the walls screeching undying love nor blooming adoration. Though, sometimes he had those feelings too, but they came out more as condescending banters, and pointed looks thrown in someone's direction. Without such intended cruel intentions, mind you.

No, Molly gave him a sort of joy that was relatable to something John had introduced: Friendship. Yet, this joy was something much more to a deeper relational root. A joy was that of a relationship that was open for testing and pondering and even... intimacy. A new found joy that Molly had elicited within him, yes. Perhaps, Sherlock had finally found the start of something 'marital'. _Is this—is this how it feels the first time?_ Sherlock thought to himself.

"Quite frankly, much more than that." Sherlock smiled against the soft hair of his wife and inhaled. He felt quite reinvented. Akin to a foreign freedom.

Molly's dream would not end today.

No, especially not today.

Sherlock was too comfortable.

So was Molly.

* * *

Yes, my friends, Sherlock is starting to get certain attachments towards our little Molly. This is my calm before the storm. There is still the matter of Molly finding out the truth about Hamish, and whether or not if she can let herself be pulled into that sort of drama. I mean, after all the suffering she deserves to breathe, right? I agree ;)

I had such high hopes into dragging this chapter out some more but... I couldn't. I had re-written this multiple times and each paragraph felt disconnected. Nothing was continuous nor did it hold your attention long enough to get the spark between them to crackle-and-pop! So, I had to cut it at a mere 600 something words. The rest of it will be tossed into the 'extras' folder, and saved in case I want to add them into another chapter.

**My reason for being absent**: My mother has been having some health problems as of late so I took some time to help her. I basically was the substitute mother for almost a month. Domestic skills ACTIVATE! She was rather adamant in pulling through on her own, but things got from better to worse then back to better, and again back to worse. I took the responsibility with balancing my work, the family, and this story. Please keep us in your thoughts and prayers. *hugs everyone*

_**Again, thank you all for your support on this story. You have helped me through quite a stand-still in my life. You guys keep the light burning for me after so many things. So, thank you, thank you, THANK YOU ALL AND TO EVERY SINGLE ONE. Thank you so very much.**_

**_Leave your wonderful words of criticism, praise, and FEELZ in the reviews. I read through all of them whenever I can. Yes, your words make me laugh and smile and giggle like an idiot ;) thank you for that!_**


	21. Chapter Preview: Red

**Red**

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_Molly fidgeted with the cell phone, placed it against her ear, and waited patiently for the voice mail beep. "Hamish?" she had to momentarily clear her throat. "It's Molly. I just wanted to say... well, I-I just wanted to say that... E-everything is alright now. Y-you don't have to worry anymore..." _

_The woman nibbled the inside of her cheek before inhaling quickly and saying, "I wish you well, Hamish. I miss you at work. It's not the same anymore. I always expect to see you around the corner... but you never are." a long pause. "Good-bye, Hamish. Thank you, for everything."_

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"Well, he very much fits the name of the cologne, I suppose." Molly replied with a slight giggle. "Definitely like a spirit that sort of wonders about. Never seeing him in the normal settings, but always the strange corners."

The bit of the statement held truth. Sherlock couldn't be contained in any way or aspect. Always doing what he wanted without a care of the consent of others. Yes, definitely a sort of spirit. Sherlock seemed unbound by the rules and normalcy of society.

Molly was lost in her thoughts for a moment until the perfume clerk's gift wrapping brought her back to reality. The young female had such small nimble fingers that truly held a hidden talent. The pathologist had never seen such confidence, and flawless grace in wrapping a single item. It was almost as if the wrappings were an additional gift along with what was inside. Of course, Joy's fanciful wrapping took the cake! While the rest of the gifts had their simple, and plain 'Merry Christmas' phrases thrown about the gaudy red and green paper.

The fun in this for Molly truly was being able to pick, and choose the colors of her own free will.

"I think the green trimmed gold will do nicely with the red paper, Joy." Molly pointed at the shimmering ribbon, and watched with glee as Joy quickly snipped, tied, and bowed the gift. A small card that Molly had been handed moments before was nicely tucked underneath the ribbon.

Inside the small card read:

**Dearest Sherlock**

**Love Molly xxx**

Tonight would be perfect. What with all their friends at the flat—what could possibly go wrong?

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Just a very small preview of what is to come ;) Chapter is incredibly long so I'm currently going over it to make sure it's cleaned up!

Oh, yes! I'm using **that** scene.


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